


Ghost in the Shell

by Wind_Ryder



Series: Tumblr Fics [17]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Captain America (Comics), Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Animal Death, Codependency, Depression, Food Issues, Force-Feeding, Friendship, Guilt, Holocaust, Hurt/Comfort, Isolation, Separation Anxiety, Starvation, Torture, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-09
Updated: 2015-07-04
Packaged: 2018-04-03 13:57:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 50,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4103442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wind_Ryder/pseuds/Wind_Ryder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He lay the jacket over the Winter Soldier's body. “My name is Steve Rogers, we’re going to get you out of here.” The head turned, wide blue eyes stared up at him. Steve felt his breath catch in his throat.</p><p>“Steve?” the Winter Soldier asked.</p><p>After mounting a valiant war effort, Steve’s body finally won out over his mind. He turned and he puked. He was still vomiting even when Natasha shouted for the man to stay still and not move. There, in the tube, frozen in time, lay Bucky Barnes. Natasha was right. Things could always get worse.</p><p>________________________________________________________________________________________</p><p>"Okay so I had a really unoriginal idea for a fic but like what if Steve had somehow found Bucky before he knew he was the Winter Soldier? Like maybe Bucky hadn't had to fight Steve and stayed in cryo until after Nat busted HYDRA and then he found him and I'm just dying thinking about this omg."</p><p>- Anon Prompt to Lauralot on Tumblr, and seconded by ImpishTubist.</p><p>________________________________________________________________________________________</p><p>NOW COMPLETE!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lauralot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lauralot/gifts), [ImpishTubist](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImpishTubist/gifts).



> I stole this prompt after Lauralot posted the ask on her account. It wouldn't leave me alone, and so I started writing it. Whoever the anon was - I hope that this was okay, and satisfactory.

Steve waited as Natasha began to open the vault doors. It had been a hell of a week. He could feel sand starting to press against his eyes, and he rubbed at them wearily. He couldn’t remember the last time he slept. Since they’d discovered Hydra growing within SHIELD, every day had felt like a mad race to the finish line. Five days after the fact, he still wasn’t sure where that finish line was. This was a nightmare, every bit of it. ( _“It could be worse,”_ Natasha had told him that morning. _“How could it be worse?”_ Steve had asked her. She hadn’t replied).

All of the Avengers had been called in. Once Fury had realized what was on the drive, once he realized exactly what was happening, their plans had been put in motion. They’d worked tirelessly, day in and day out, struggling to get to the bottom of this cellar. How far had it gone? How deep did it go?

“You all right, Rogers?” Natasha asked him just as she started to spin the tumbler on the door. He listened as the rods pulled back and the vault was opened. _Onwards they travel, into the belly of the beast,_ he thought wearily.

**  
**

“Yeah,” he replied. “Just ready for this to be over.” He shook his head and stepped to the side, peering into the vault. It had been hastily abandoned. Paperwork was thrown across the ground, computers were destroyed, monitors shattered. Steve could almost convince himself that the vault was an old base, long forgotten, if it wasn’t for the smell. The air wasn’t stale or stagnant. It was relatively fresh, and there wasn’t a speck of dust anywhere in the chaos.

He sighed and moved forwards.

“You know, the world won’t stop if you take a break for a bit. You could use a vacation.” Natasha slipped in behind him. Her tone was always light, but Steve could feel the imploring nature of them. She was trying. For someone who had every right to tell him _Told you so!_ in the wake of their discovery, she was trying to be kind. It meant...something. Steve was too tired to work out what.

“The last time I took a break, Hydra infiltrated SHIELD,” he told her stiffly.

“I’m not sure spending seventy years in the tundra quantifies as a vacation, Rogers.” He didn’t have anything else to call it. He had gone to war to fight against Hitler, he’d continued his fight against Hydra, and then he’d….rested? Stopped? Died? He wasn’t sure what the filler word was, but when it was over, he’d just done more of the same. He fought against one enemy, and now he was fighting against Hydra again.

There was a metal chair in the center of the room. It was mostly disassembled and there was a rotating rim near the headrest. Monitors were adjusted beside it, but they were broken as well. Steve didn’t know what it was. He made a mental note to ask Tony to look at it later. His eyes scrolled around the room. There were hundreds of safety security boxes, some with keys and some without. He knew they’d need to look into each one and confirm that there was nothing important or hidden in any of them.

“Are you hungry?” Natasha asked. He shook his head. He was, but the thought of food made his stomach roll. He’d been working for Hydra. That’s what it came down to in the end. When he read the files, when he reviewed the documentation, that’s what the truth had been. He’d worked for Hydra. Hydra had essentially been SHIELD. His head spun dizzily and he stared at one of the safety security boxes in front of him.

He’d been at home, staring at his bookshelf and wondering what he was supposed to read next, listening to an album his mother had loved, when his world had come out from beneath him. He’d had a knock at the door, and he’d answered, only to be shot. _“It’s nothing personal,”_ Rumlow had told him, firing two more times before Steve had managed to knock the gun out of his hands and handle the situation.

He’d spent the next hour choking on blood while his neighbor, who was apparently _not_ named Kate, called in a response team and informed him she was his minder sent to look out for him under the direct command of Nick Fury. Fury hadn’t been pleased with the scenario, and neither had the turncoat Hydra agents that had come to finish the job Rumlow had started.

Rumlow had been his friend. His second in command. He’d led the Strike Unit that Steve had been responsible for. They’d had beers and even gone to a baseball game together. Rumlow had shot him point blank in his apartment, and he’d done it because Steve had let Hydra thrive after his….sabbatical in the ice.

Fury had Not-Kate bring Steve to a secure location, and there he explained everything. Project Insight’s targets, their plan to kill thousands of terrorists now inverted to kill thousands of potential threats to Hydra. It was all the same, Steve had argued. Threats against Hydra, threats against SHIELD, threats against the United States and every country out there. Who were they to decide who was a threat? Who were they to decide any of it? The targets were different, but the plan was the same. Fury had been complacent in building a machine that could end the lives of millions. He’d advocated it. He’d been proud of it, until it had changed. And Steve had worked for him. He’d worked for all of them.

Steve wasn’t hungry. He didn’t think he’d be able to eat anything again. His nausea hadn’t settled at all since this nightmare had begun.

Natasha had been watching him, since their war trek began. She’d apologized at one point ( _“I’m sorry that you were wrong,”_ ) but it had felt empty at best. She had told him, when they first started, that she didn’t trust anybody. He didn’t blame her. No one these days was very trustworthy.

He pressed a hand to his side. He’d healed from the bullet wounds, but they still ached. It was a dull pain, like pressing on a bruise. They shouldn’t hurt anymore, he knew. More than anything, it was a phantom sensation. He grit his teeth. What was the point of calling himself Captain America, if America was nothing like he remembered it being. He didn’t want this world. He didn’t want any of this.

He wanted to go home.

Something burned in his eyes, and he grimaced as he felt tears forming. He blinked them back viciously, keeping his back turned to Natasha so she wouldn’t see his grief. It wasn’t fair to her to deal with this. It was his own problem.

He stepped forward. There was a crack between the shelving, and he dug his fingers into it. He pulled back, and the wall moved. The hidden room was even more destroyed than the vault. A large metal tube lay on the floor, a push cart next to it. Someone had tried to move it, but it hadn’t been strapped properly. It had fallen, likely broken, and was left there as Hydra’s minions made a hasty retreat. Steve huffed, shaking his head.

Kneeling down he pushed at the tube, watching as what appeared to be water seeped from a cracked glass window on the bottom. Condensation had clung to the sides of the device, and Steve listened as Natasha stepped closer. “Steve,” She spoke his name firmly.

“What is it?” he asked her. It was approximately seven feet in length.  A fogging glass window was towards the top of the device, and a panel of buttons were set on the side. There were various ports for electricity and some other connections to hook into it, though Steve couldn’t figure out what half of them meant. He’d seen them in Tony’s lab, though Tony had never bothered to explain. Steve never cared much for engineering.

“A cryotube,” she replied.

“A what?” He frowned as he looked up at her.

“It’s…” her lips twisted as she tried to explain. He braced himself for an answer he wouldn’t like. He could already guess what it was. “It’s used to freeze someone, keep them stagnant.” He felt a chill go up his spine, and he was reminded sharply of his crash. The water and ice that came in from all sides. He’d survived the crash, but he couldn’t get out of the plane. It had sunk too low in the water. He couldn’t breath. He couldn’t breathe. He pressed against the glass of the plane, tried desperately to flee, and then the cold surrounded him completely. He closed his eyes. He woke up in the future.

“Why?” he asked. He could feel his lungs struggling against the phantom weight of cold and water. He forced them to expand properly. In. Out. In. Out. There was no water here. There was no ice. In. Out. In. Out. ( _See Dr. Martell?_ Steve thought savagely. _I did pay attention._ ) Natasha looked like she wasn’t going to say anything. “Why?” Steve insisted.

“To study the effects of a disease without losing any tissue samples, to review the anatomy of the subject, medical research-”

“ _And_?” he pressed. She was hedging: not lying, but avoiding the full truth.

“I only ever saw someone in cryo-freeze once. Someone who woke up, and was awake when they put him back in.” Her eyes fell to the tank. The glass was fogging more now. Steve felt his stomach twist worse. There was a face there, blurry and hard to make out. He swallowed a great gulp of bile as it rose up his throat. He could taste it on his tongue. In. Out. In. Out. “They call him the Winter Soldier. He’s credited with over two dozen assassinations in the last fifty years. Before I left the Red Room...I saw something like this,” she motioned towards the tube. “I saw the man they put in.” She paused before counting.  “Then, five years ago I was escorting a nuclear engineer out of Iran, somebody shot at my tires near Odessa. We lost control, went straight over a cliff, I pulled us out, but the Winter Soldier was there. I was covering my engineer, so he shot him straight through me. It was the same man. Hadn’t aged a day.”

“Open it,” Steve told her firmly.

“Steve, we should wait until-”

“Open it.”

“He’s an assassin, Steve. The best there is. We open that, we let him out.”

“You think it’s better to leave him in there?”

“I think we need to call Fury-”

“Open it.” Her lips pressed into a thin line. She wasn’t going to do it. He growled in frustration, and leaned towards the tube. The latches were simple, he unhooked them and moved to pry the door open. It was sealed. Ice, he realized, had coated the lining of the tube. Gritting his teeth, he took his shield and he slammed it between the crack in the door. He heard the ice shatter, and more than that - he heard a faint gasp of surprise.

The Winter Soldier ( _God, what an awful name to call someone they kept frozen in time)_ was awake. Natasha stood up and backed away, her guns were in her hands, and she aimed it at the tube. That was fine. If this went wrong, she deserved to feel safe. The Winter Soldier still didn’t deserve to be frozen and discarded like a lost prop. Steve hit his shield into the crack again, and this time the gasp from within was more of a whine.

Confusion, terror. He was scared. Steve’s heart hammered in his chest. He dropped the shield and forced his fingers into the door. He pulled as hard as he could, and could hear as the man within moved to push against it as well.

The door was thrown open, and Steve stumbled back as his weight was put off balance. Shaking his head, he turned to look at the assassin. White. Naked. Metal arm (the cold would have made the arm burn against his skin. It would hurt. It was torture). There was scarring at the adjoin, brutal and obviously the product of many years of misuse. The Soldier’s head was angled down and away, as though expecting a strike, long hair (tangled and wet) was hiding his face. He didn’t try to get up. He was shivering, violently, and his teeth chattered so loud Steve could hear it from where he was standing.

Steve looked around. There had to be a blanket. Something. A coat. He needed to keep warm. He’d go into shock. He needed- he needed. There was nothing. Steve dropped his shield and forced his fingers to go to the snaps and buckles of his uniform. “Steve-” Natasha warned, but he didn’t care. He pulled off his jacket in less than a minute, and crouched down by the tube.

He lay the jacket over the Winter Soldier's body. “My name is Steve Rogers, we’re going to get you out of here.” The head turned, wide blue eyes stared up at him. Steve felt his breath catch in his throat.

“Steve?” the Winter Soldier asked.

After mounting a valiant war effort, Steve’s body finally won out over his mind. He turned and he puked. He was still vomiting even when Natasha shouted for the man to stay still and not move. There, in the tube, frozen in time, lay Bucky Barnes. Natasha was right. Things could always get worse.

 

* * *

 

Bucky Barnes was twenty-eight years old when he died. He’d been young, friendly, and outgoing throughout his childhood. He was an older brother, and he only started fights when his sisters were involved, but he finished all the fights where Steve was involved. He’d been a talented athlete, and had been in good health prior to shipping out. When Steve had found him, lying on a table cold and alone, he hadn’t been in good health. But he had survived. That was more than Zola’s other test subjects did.

Bucky was quiet in the war. Steve sat by his side and talked to him about happy things. They discussed their plans after everything was over, and Steve knew that whatever happened - they’d do it together. When Bucky wasn’t talking to Steve, he smiled at the other members of their team, he nodded his head when prompted, and he gave polite responses in interviews. He never started a conversation on his own, he never went out of his way to talk to someone, and he only responded when prompted. He slept fitfully, but when he never made a sound. He was cold more often than not, and Steve gave him his blanket to help keep him warm. Bucky rarely thanked him for it.

He didn’t thank him now either.

Steve stared at his friend, and didn’t know what to say. Bucky Barnes had died in 1945. He’d fallen from a train and he’d disappeared into the ravine below. There had been no search for his body, admittedly, but Steve had known no one could survive the fall. But Bucky Barnes was alive. He was sitting in a pool of ice water, staring up at him with wide eyes, shivering violently, and saying nothing.

“Bucky?” Steve spoke the name like a prayer. His fingers moved forwards towards his friend, and he froze stiff when Bucky flinched away from him. Bucky had never been afraid of him before. It made his stomach clench uncomfortably. He dropped his hands to his lap. Then, his mind argued firmly against that action. He surged forwards. His arms wrapped around Bucky’s body, he held him to his chest. Bucky didn’t react, didn’t pull away, didn’t fight it. He just lay there, trembling violently as Steve held him close.

“Steve…” Natasha warned him sharply.

“There’s got to be clothes - find him some clothes,” Steve babbled in response. He pulled back. Bucky wasn’t talking. He wasn’t really doing much of anything. He blinked slowly, staring at Steve’s face, shaking under Steve’s uniform jacket, and Steve could feel the ice pressing against his skin. It was so cold. So very cold.

“I’m not leaving you with him,” Natasha refuted.

“Then call someone and tell them that he needs some _God damn clothes_!” he snapped back. Bucky flinched. His head twisted to the side, eyes clenched shut. Steve gaped at him, horrified. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” he soothed. “It’s not at you. It’s not. Bucky? Bucky can you look at me?” He gently cupped his friend’s cheek. “Bucky?”

Bucky’s eyes slowly moved open. He looked at Steve, wary and so lost. He was terrified, Steve realized with a jolt. He’d seen Bucky in every emotional state possible. He’d seen him elated. He’d seen him grieving. He’d seen him so scared that he’d been frozen into immobility.

( _“Don’t let them take me, Steve. Please. Please you have to promise. I don’t want to go back.”_

__

_“Okay, Buck. Okay. I promise. You won’t go back. I promise.”_ )

Bucky was looking at him now, scared witless, and fully expecting to be in pain. “I’m going to get you out of here,” Steve swore. He pulled Bucky back towards his chest. His friend went willingly. He didn’t struggle. He didn’t fight back. He let Steve move him. Steve brought a hand to run through Bucky’s hair. He held Bucky’s head against his chest. He wrapped an arm around his frigid body.

In the background, he could hear Natasha talking to someone on comms. It was a private channel. He couldn’t hear the conversation. Bucky’s body was still trembling, and Steve carefully shifted, moved so he could lift Bucky out of the melting ice and settle him onto dry land.

Steve’s undershirt was getting soaked from being pressed against Bucky’s body, but he could hardly care less. He tucked his jacket more closely around Bucky’s body, and he shifted so that Bucky was sitting upright against him. “It’s going to be okay. It’s going to be okay.”

He could hear movement, someone else - not Natasha - was coming. He glanced up, preparing to move if he had to. Clint. He had a bag in one hand, and his bow in the other. He didn’t look pleased, necessarily, but he didn’t look angry either. He shared a meaningful look with Natasha, and then moved forwards.

“Am I good to approach, Cap?” he asked, shifting closer but still keeping his distance.

“Yes, do you-” Clint was already holding up the bag. He brought clothes. Warm clothes. A blanket. A towel. Steve wondered what Natasha had said to Clint, and how Clint managed to find so much in so little time. He nodded, gratitude falling silent on his tongue. Clint just shrugged.

“His coordination is going to be off,” Clint warned. Anxiety and suspicion swirled around Steve’s head as he looked at his teammate.

“You’ve seen this before?” he asked.

“With you,” Clint retorted. Steve flinched. “You woke up a few times before you went jogging through Times Square. Your coordination was off. Your memory was affected. You weren’t tracking at first. It came back slowly.” Fury had told him as much at one point. Steve hadn’t realized Clint had been there. He flushed darkly and took hold of the towel. He didn’t know what to say.

“Bucky?” Steve asked, looking at his friend. Nothing. Not even a flicker of recognition. He was staring upwards, watching his face, but he wasn’t doing anything more than that. Steve pressed the towel to his body, and dried him as best he could.

It took effort to slide the flannel pants that Clint had brought. The warm button down shirt was easier. Steve carefully slid Bucky’s arms through it, and then started to work on the snaps. He sat upright on his own while Steve worked. “Can you stand?” he asked Bucky when he was done. He draped the blanket around his body and pulled his uniform top back on. He didn’t bother to snap it into place, letting it hang open around him.

Bucky moved without speaking, pushing himself to his feet. He wobbled, and tipped forwards. Steve caught him and refused to let him fall. “You’re okay,” he told Bucky. “You’re okay.”

“That was Stark,” Natasha announced, stepping back in the room. Her hand held up her phone meaningfully. “He’s got a med suite setup. There’s a Quinjet outside. We should take it.”

Steve nodded. “Are you okay to walk?” he asked Bucky. He didn’t look okay to walk. He looked like he wasn’t even aware there was anything happening around him. He stared at Steve expectantly, and when Steve took a step, Bucky’s legs buckled. He caught him and lifted him upright. One arm slipped under Bucky’s knees, the other supported his back. “I’ve got you,” he promised.

Bucky’s eyes were wide, and that all too familiar look of terror had returned. He was staring at Steve, horrified and clearly uncomfortable. “It’s okay,” Steve promised. “Nothing’s going to happen. It’s okay. You’re safe. I promise. We’re going to get you out of here.” He started to walk, and he tried to ignore the fact that in his arms: Bucky looked at him as though at any moment he was going to march him right back to that tube, throw him inside, and seal him up in the dark and cold.

* * *

Bucky was two-hundred-and-sixty pounds of solid muscle. He wasn’t thin or emaciated. He wasn’t waiflike. He wasn’t even the same as the man Steve had let fall from a train. He was built like a fighter like - like - Steve.

And all two-hundred-and-sixty pounds of him was locked and tense, waiting for something that would never come, and Steve felt his heart breaking and his head spinning. It could be worse, Steve told himself futily. He could have found Bucky dead, an inspected corpse that had never properly been laid to rest.

He didn’t think too long on the fact that Bucky would have preferred it that way. He would have preferred to have died in the Alps. Steve had always been selfish. ( _“You ready to follow Captain America into the jaws of death?”_ ) Despite holding his best friend in his arms, Steve couldn’t feel anything except grateful that he wasn’t alone.

It was a horrible thought.

* * *

“I can walk,” Bucky told him as they reached the door. “Please, I can walk.” Steve almost ignored him. He almost told Bucky that it was okay, he didn’t mind. He’d get him out.

( _“You never have to go back, I’ll keep you safe.”_

__

_“Do you promise, Steve?”_

__

_“I promise, Buck. We’re going to end this. You and me. No one else is going to get hurt.”_ )

“Please,” Bucky begged him. Steve let him down. He almost fell. His body swayed badly. His eyes fluttered as though preparing for a long sleep. Steve watched him, bracing himself for the possibility that Bucky really couldn’t handle it. Bucky looked up at him. “I can walk,” he swore. Steve nodded.

  
“Let me help?” he asked. Bucky flinched again, but didn’t complain or protest when Steve wrapped an arm around his back, drew Bucky’s arm over his shoulder. They walked from Zola’s lab like this, Bucky leaning on him and Steve leading them forwards.

( _“Is it permanent?”_

__

_“So far.”_ )

Steve led them now. They walked from the Bank, and kept their heads down as they approached the Quinjet. Clint had parked it haphazardly. Cars were blaring their horns and pedestrians were taking pictures. He’d been rushing, and Steve was grateful for his response. They hurried into the plane, and Clint quickly moved to the pilot’s seat. Natasha sat next to him in the copilot’s seat.

“Hey look,” Clint said, pointing to the windshield. Steve looked. “I got a ticket.” It was absurd, but true. A little piece of paper was slapped on the windshield, a product of corporate disgruntlement and overeager police work. Any other time, Steve might have smiled. He couldn’t bring himself to do so now. He looked back towards Bucky.

Bucky was sitting in one of the seats. His eyes were snapping all around them. His hands were curling into fists in his lap. His terror had fled, replaced by wariness and uncertainty. Steve moved towards him and crouched low. He braced himself as Clint lifted the jet up into the air. Bucky’s vision focused on Steve’s face. He watched as Bucky’s blue eyes bore into him, looking at him for answers that Steve hoped to give.

“Hey,” he said. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m-” The Quinjet jolted as Clint turned above the skyline. They were moving faster now, quickly making their way across the DC Metropolitan area. Bucky’s hands closed tight around the seat. “75% operational,” he finished.

The phrasing as wrong. The words swirled around Steve’s head, and he tried to remember a time when Bucky had responded like that. Never. This was new. Unique. Uncomfortable. He nodded his head, as though he understood what Bucky meant.

Bucky’s shoulders were shaking, and Steve reached out and wrapped the blanket more firmly around him. “We got you out,” he said firmly.

“You are...my handler?” Bucky asked him.

“Bucky?” Steve asked. His heart had started to pound in his ears. He could feel the nausea start boiling within him once more. “Bucky...do you know who I am?” Bucky didn’t react. He looked at him, blankly. No, not blankly. His fingers were tightening on his seat. He still hadn’t moved to take the blanket, despite Steve organizing it with Bucky’s comfort in mind. His eyes crinkled in the corners, the bottom lid squeezed up towards the top lid. His tongue flicked from his mouth.

“Steve?” It sounded more like a question than an answer. “I…” Startled. Bucky’s head twitched to the side, his eyes blinked rapidly. “I know you,” he said. Then, again, desperate. “I know you.”

( _“Cause I’m with you until the end of the line, pal.”_ )

“Yes,” Steve nodded. “Yes. It’s Steve, Steve Rogers.” Bucky surged forwards. His hands gripped Steve’s uniform tight. “Bucky?”

“Steve. Steve Rogers. I know you. I know you.”

“You’ve known me your whole life,” Steve confirmed. His head ached. His body was hurting. It burned within him. This wasn’t fair. First Peggy, beautiful Peggy, had grown old and had slowly lost her memories. Now Bucky had stayed young, and he too forgot. Why was he cursed to remember, when everyone else was free to forget?

“You were on the train,” Bucky told him. Steve felt as though he were losing his mind. He nodded, dumbly. Of all the things Bucky to fixate on, why did it have to be that? Why that? “You came back?” Bucky breathed the words out, like they were being jerked from a far off thought. His head tipped forwards and he rested it against Steve’s shoulder.

“Yes,” Steve promised. “I came back. I promised I would.”

“I thought you were dead,” Bucky told him quietly. Steve, in a flash of memory and realization, replied:

“I thought you were smaller.” Bucky gasped against his throat.

“Steve?” he asked again.

“Yes?”

“Can we go home now?” Steve wrapped his arms around Bucky. He didn’t let go until they arrived in New York, almost four hours later.

* * *

Tony Stark was remarkably malleable. He opened his heart and home to those he called friends, and they seldom took advantage of it. Steve knew he was taking advantage of it now. He thanked Tony again and again, and Tony just shrugged and waved it off. “It’s fine,” he said, squinting at Bucky.

Bucky kept his head down, he was pressed against Steve’s side. His body temperature had risen sufficiently during the flight, but he was still shivering. Steve held him close. He told him it was going to be okay. He didn’t know if Bucky believed him.

Tony and Bruce had built a medical suite for the Avengers, ever cognizant of the fact that there could be an injury at any time. Steve led Bucky there first, settling him onto one of the tables and watching as Bucky curled in on himself. He kept his eyes down. If it wasn’t Steve, he didn’t make eye contact.

The doctors came in, they asked Bucky questions, and he answered in flat tones. When he was listening to the question, he was precise and clinical in his responses. When he wasn’t paying attention (which was often), he stared off into the distance and didn’t speak to anyone. One of the doctors touched him, trying to put a cuff around his arm. Steve’s brain didn’t fully engage with Bucky’s response until the doctor was thrown clear across the room. Bucky’s arm snapped out, throwing the woman so far her back crashed against the wall. She shouted in pain, hands going back to cup her head as she looked at them with tear filled eyes.

“Bucky! Bucky!” Steve shouted, stepping in front of him and lifting his hands in the air. “It’s all right, it’s okay! Bucky it’s me.” Bucky was breathing raggedly. He looked at Steve, but he didn’t actually see Steve. He was seeing something else, someone else. He was terrified again. His lips trembled. His chest expanded and contracted, he was gasping for air. His fists were tight in his lap and Steve heard bombs crashing in the air. He heard planes flying all around. He heard the Commandos telling him that they needed to hurry.

_(“Bucky, Bucky wake up. We’re under attack. Bucky please!” Bucky was staring off into the distance, not moving, not reacting. He was perfectly motionless. “Bucky, we have to go. Bucky!” Nothing. He kept staring, as though he could see something that wasn’t there, and he knew far better than to move. “I’m sorry,” Steve told him gently. Then he pulled a hand back and struck his closest friend across the face._

__

_Blue eyes blinked closed, then opened. Bucky stared at him, shocked, mouth gaping as he lifted a hand to his cheek. “What the hell, Steve?”_

__

_“We’re under attack,” Steve told him. “We need to go.” Bucky nodded and grabbed his pack and his gun._

__

_“Didn’t have ta hit me, ya feckin’ mook.”)_

Steve didn’t want to hit Bucky. He didn’t want to hit Bucky at all. Steve was certain, absolutely certain, that Bucky had been hit more than any man should be hit in a lifetime. He carefully reached out. He framed Bucky’s face between his palms. Bucky focussed on Steve, stared at him like he was a lifeline. “You’re all right,” Steve told him gently. “You’re all right. You’re safe. Do you understand?”

“Mission?” he asked, and Steve didn’t know what that meant. “I-I don’t-what am I-what’s going on?” He flinched away from Steve and shook his head. “Where-I don’t-” he stood up from the table. Then, once his brain seemed to catch up with the fact that he stood up, he sat back down. He looked from Steve to the doctors to the door. “I’m...I’m-”

“Bucky?” Steve prompted.

“I don’t-I-what do you want me to do?” He stared up at Steve, as though Steve possibly had an answer for him.

“Calm down,” Steve told him. “Just take a deep breath.” Bucky did. He did, and he waited expectantly for Steve to say more. When Steve didn’t continue, the panic started to rise. His lips were moving, he was mouthing words, but they weren’t in English. “Bucky? Bucky I just need you to take a deep breath. It’s okay. It’s okay. Please? Please, Bucky-”

“We should sedate him,” one of the doctors said. Steve recoiled.

“You don’t touch him. Ever,” Steve snapped. The doctor jumped in surprise, and suddenly Bucky was moving. He dove forwards, metal arm whirring loudly as his hand snatched the doctor by the throat and lifted the doctor up into the air. His eyes were wide, crazed, his hair was standing up in every direction. “No!”

_(They were in Poland. They’d come across a long trail of emaciated bodies. They had fallen by the road, as though they’d been walking and had just stopped. Each body was more misshapen than the last. A flickering flame clinging desperately to its wick, finally snuffed out._

__

_They found a German Officer in the woods. He was beating a girl, so thin and frail she could have been a child. Bucky shot him before Steve could even lift his shield. They pulled the Officer off the girl, and he was still alive. He was coughing blood and spitting obscenities. Bucky kept a gun on him while Gabe looked the girl over._

__

_When she died, Steve turned towards Bucky. He wasn’t fast enough to stop him from shooting the Officer. Once. Twice. Three times. He emptied his clip. He wasn’t shooting to kill. One went to the man’s shoulder. Another went to his other shoulder. His pelvis, his knee. On his final shot, he hit the man in the gut._

__

_Bucky kicked out, catching the Officer in the face. He kept kicking. Again. Again. “Bucky…” Steve called. “Bucky.” Again. Again. Kick after kick after infuriated kick. “Bucky enough. Bucky. Stop. Stop. Enough!” He grabbed Bucky’s shoulder, spun him around. Bucky’s fist came up and caught Steve in the eye. His head snapped to the side. Impressive, considering not much could hurt Steve these days._

__

_He turned his head back to his friend. “Enough,” he repeated. He didn’t need to say it. Bucky had recoiled after he’d struck Steve. He stared at his hands in horror. His rage gave way to tears._

__

_“It’s not fair,” he told Steve, Dugan, the Commandos. “It’s not fair!” Bucky shouted._

__

_“I know, Buck,” Steve told him. “Nothing about this is fair.”)_

“Enough,” Steve told Bucky firmly. Bucky’s fingers opened around the doctor’s throat. The man fell to the ground. He, and Bucky’s earlier victim, both ran to the door. Steve didn’t doubt that they were going to have visitors soon. Tony, Clint, Natasha, maybe even Bruce if they felt threatened enough. “Stop.”

Bucky stopped.

* * *

Tony had a file on Bucky Barnes. Or rather: Tony had a file on the Winter Soldier. Natasha and he worked on it while Bucky threatened Tony’s doctors in their medbay. When Steve led Bucky upstairs to the Avengers common room, Tony was on his fourth glass of scotch and had the file spread out before him.

Bucky kept his head down. His posture was flawless, completely straight backed with upright shoulders. Except, he kept his head down. No eye contact. It was a learned behavior. Bucky barely recognized his own name, he hardly knew who Steve was, and yet he knew not to make eye contact with anyone around him.

Steve looked down at the table. He stared at the pictures of Bucky. He was in the tube. He was out of the tube. He was dressed in combat black. His metal arm gleamed in photos where his face was shrouded, a call sign proving exactly who he was.

“I wasn’t lying when I said he’s credited with more than two dozen assassinations,” Natasha told him carefully. Steve could feel his energy starting to finally wane. His eyes were struggling to stay open. His emotions had been in constant flux for too long. He needed a break. He needed to rest.

( _“You’ll run yourself ragged if you keep it up, punk.”_

__

_“Just a little more, Buck. I just need to do a little more.”_

__

_“Sit down before you fall down. I got this watch.”_

__

_“No, you need to sleep-”_

__

_“I ain’t gonna sleep whether you tell me to or not. I’m staying awake, and that’s more than you can say.”_

__

_“You’re not tired?”_

__

_“Oh, I’m plenty tired. But me and Mr. Sandman ain’t on speaking terms at the moment. Go to sleep, Steve. I got this watch.”_

__

_“You sure?”_

__

_“Yeah, Rogers. I’m sure.”_ )

Tony knocked back his drink. He pushed himself to his feet, and he stumbled towards a page on the far end of the table. He picked it up, and he walked towards Steve. He shoved the page into Steve’s chest, and then he moved towards his bar to pour himself another. Clint was already standing there, and he stepped out of the way. He let Tony pour himself another. He should have stopped him.

Steve peeled the page from his chest and he looked at it. Howard and Maria Stark. Killed via car accident. Hydra had sent their prized asset to do the job. Bucky had killed them. He’d killed Tony’s parents. He’d killed them. Steve dropped the paper back to the table.

Bucky was standing behind him, eyes cast down, but he was shying slightly. He could sense the tension in the room. His attention was focused on Steve’s hands. Expecting to be hit.

“Remember that help...I said I’d give?” Tony asked, not even bothering with the glass anymore. He sipped bourbon straight from the bottle. “You can just...get out.”

“Tony…”

“GO!” Tony threw the glass. It sailed through the air, and Bucky caught it. He caught it. His metal hand wrapped around it with surprising dexterity and grace. The crystal glass didn’t so much as crack. Bourbon splashed across Bucky’s body, but he shielded Steve from it. Tony stared at Bucky with his eyes wide and his mouth floundering.

“Come on, Buck,” Steve murmured. He reached out and pressed a hand to Bucky’s shoulder. “We’re leaving.”

Bucky placed the glass on the table, resting it over the black and white photo of his own unconscious face. Steve led Bucky back towards the elevator. The smell of liquor was strong in the confined quarters, and it was just barely enough to keep him awake. “We should...lay low for a while,” he murmured. His sluggish brain failed to come up with anything else to add on. He had no idea what he was doing. When they reached the Tower’s garage, Steve stared blankly at the vehicles in front of them.

He couldn’t move. His brain wasn’t operating on all cylinders. He blinked slowly, struggling to keep his mind focussed. He didn’t know where to go. He was exhausted. He was starving. He swayed violently. Bucky’s hand traced across his spine as his arm wrapped around back.

“Buck?” he asked quietly.

“We have to go to ground?” Bucky asked him. “We are to be...out of sight?” his phrasing was wrong again. Steve couldn’t even begin to figure out why.

“Yes,” he murmured. Bucky nodded curtly, and then carried him through the garage. He walked firmly, promptly, moving with purpose. Steve’s legs dragged underneath him. He stumbled desperately to keep them moving, but Bucky was hoisting him along with each step.

They left the garage without stopping at any of the cars. They were in a cab within seconds. Steve was only half conscious as Bucky gave an address. He was even less so when the cab stopped. “Anything for Captain America!” the cabbie insisted, refusing payment. Steve couldn’t even manage a proper thank you.

Bucky carried him to an alley and propped him up against a wall. Steve was left, then, cold and vacant.

( _“I could’ve taken ‘em on my own.”_

__

_“You kiddin’? They were gonna knock your teeth in!”_

__

_“Well I could’ve taken ‘em. Don’t need someone like you helping me.”_

__

_“What’s wrong with me?”_

__

_“You’re just like them! A bully and a punk!”_

__

_“_ You’re _the punk, short-stuff. Now come on, where do you live? I’ll take you home.”_ )

Bucky returned. He reached towards Steve and hoisted him back up. He dragged Steve forwards and pushed him into the passenger seat of a car. “What?” he mumbled, barely avoiding his head getting bashed in when Bucky slammed the door shut. Bucky was in the driver’s seat in moments. The car roared to life. “Buck? Where did...we get a car?” Bucky didn’t reply. “Where...are we going?”

( _“You gotta learn to duck.”_

__

_“What are you doing here?”_

__

_“Was passing by an alley and heard some punk kid getting beat_ again _. Couldn’t let that happen. Sides, you're still all tiny. My ma taught me better’n’that.”_

__

_“I ain't tiny, and you can take your help elsewhere. Go away.”_

__

_“Can’t. You’re stuck with me.”_

__

_“Why?”_

__

_“Always wanted a dog, scrappy one that get’s into fights and proves what’s what. Suppose I could settle for you.”_

__

_“I’m not a dog!”_

__

_“You sure? You’re certainly dumb like one.”_

__

_“What’s your name anyway?”_

__

_“James, James Buchanan Barnes. You?”_

__

_“Steve, Steven Grant Rogers, and I ain’t callin’ you ‘James’ - got beat up by too many of those before.”_

__

_“Can’t keep us all straight?”_

__

_“Well, gotta know which one of you is gonna be a jerk or not...._  Bucky. _”_

__

_“‘Bucky’, huh? I like it. You sure you don't want to be man's best friend?”_

 

_"Why, you lonely?"_

 

_"A bit. yeah. You mind if I hang around?"_

 

_"Fine. I suppose you could stay."_

 

 _"Mighty gracious of you. Well, you're in command, where too next, Steve-o?"_ )

“Someplace safe,” Bucky told him. Steve stared at him.  He closed his eyes. He’d deal with the rest in the morning. 

**  
**


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By popular demand I've made this into a full multi-chaptered arc. It's complete, with seven chapters. I'll post them all over the next few days when I have a chance to edit/update. Please keep an eye on the tags as they have changed. 
> 
> As always, you can find me at my tumblr with any requests or comments. Thank you!

Bucky brought them to the Canadian wilderness. He dumped the car, and patiently waited as Steve pushed himself to his feet. They had supplies: food, water, clothes. Bucky had them in packs, and he handed one to Steve expectantly. He took it. He moved his arms through the straps, and he buckled it around his waist. Bucky did the same.

“This way,” he instructed. He led Steve forwards, and Steve followed. He had given up on trying to understand what was going on. His nap, which had consisted of ten hours of uninterrupted sleep, had left him completely disoriented. He didn’t know where they were, not really. He didn’t know how Bucky had managed to acquire everything he had. He didn’t know if they even had any money.

They were on the run. He remembered that clearly enough. Tony’s anger at the Winter Soldier file had been enough to send them packing, and Steve knew it would only be a matter of time before Tony realized that he’d sent his only chance of retribution back out into the world. Natasha and Clint would likely have followed them, but Steve couldn’t remember seeing them and he didn’t know how to ask Bucky about it.

Bucky. He was more aware than he had been when he first woke up. He was moving swiftly, body well used to travel, and he didn’t seem the least bit off-kilter by any of this. Steve’s head ached. His feet stumbled over a twig and he tripped forwards. Bucky caught his swaying arm, and held him upright. He looked distinctly unimpressed by Steve’s newfound fragility.

They’d barely made it half a mile before Steve’s knees gave out beneath him. He didn’t have anything left to throw up, and so he resorted to dry-heaving. He coughed and choked as his esophagus fluttered in his throat. His stomach spasmed and his diaphragm collapsed. Bucky stood over him, watching.

( _“Sick again?”_

__

_“Shut up, Bucky.”_

__

_“Awe, don’t be like that. I’ve brought you homework!”_

__

_“You’re a terrible friend.”_

__

_“I’ve brought you homework that I’ve already done. You’re welcome.”_

__

_“No foolin? I should get sick more often, with service like that.”_

__

_“Don’t push it, punk. You’re sick enough as it is.”_ )

“You’re sick,” Bucky murmured. He sounded confused, uncertain. Captain America couldn’t get sick. Steve knew first hand that illnesses never took hold. His immune system was too efficient for that. He shook his head.

“Not-” he gagged. “Sick,” he finished. He needed to eat something. He knew that. It had been, what? A full week by now? Almost? He couldn’t remember what the last meal he had was, and his memory had been flawless since the moment Erskine had injected him with his serum. The good, the bad, everything was catalogued with vivid clarity. Except, apparently, his breakfast.

Bucky shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “You’re always sick,” he said. It was soft, almost a throwaway comment that meant nothing. Steve looked up. As far as memory was concerned, Bucky’s was clearly not working the way it should. He was squinting at Steve, still trying to puzzle out exactly what was wrong. He was waiting, not moving forwards, not going to help. He would have, in the past. He would have reached towards him and demanded Steve listen to him as he militantly nursed Steve back to health.

“I’m okay,” Steve promised. He lifted a shaking hand and clung to the nearest tree. He dug his nails in and he forced himself upright. He forced himself to his feet. His head spun violently. He tipped forwards, and tore away a piece of bark in an effort to remain standing. He was, mostly, successful. He looked to Bucky. “I’m okay,” he repeated.

Bucky nodded, and he didn’t protest. He turned and led the way. They moved slower than they did before, but they were still moving. Steve could barely make out where they were going, and if pressed - he couldn’t explain what they’d passed to get there. He kept his eyes on Bucky’s back, and he kept moving. He had to keep moving.

( _“Five foot nothin’ and you’re the most stubborn ass I ever met.”_

__

_“Awe, shucks, Buck, you sure do say the nicest things.”_ )

* * *

 

Bucky led Steve to a cabin. It was almost twenty miles from the closest road, and it took them a full day to hike out to it. The cabin was dusty. Cobwebs coated the windows and the roof was caving in. A bird had made its home in the rafters, and a racoon angrily scurried away when Bucky pushed open the door.

There was a mattress, lumpy and covered in pine needles and dirt, and there was little else. Furniture, Steve assumed, looking at broken tables and chairs, hadn’t been a priority here. “What is this place?” he asked Bucky.

“Safe,” Bucky replied.

“How’d you know about it?”

“I killed a man here.” Steve recoiled badly. His vision swam and he leaned against one of the cabin’s walls to stare at Bucky in shock. “No family. No friends. He believed no one would find him here.”

“You did,” Steve pointed out.  

“I followed him.” Bucky shrugged. “He needed shoes. He went to town to purchase them. I followed him from there.”

“Why not kill him in town?” Steve couldn’t begin to work out why he was having a conversation with Bucky regarding his choice in killing someone. This was his life now, he realized. He was a ninety-six year old super soldier, and his best friend was an assassin, and both of them had worked for an organization that they’d tried to destroy. He was too numb to bring himself to care anymore.

“I wanted to know where he went.” Bucky peered towards Steve, head ducking down again, waiting for a reprimand. “I did not report this location to my handlers. It was a...lapse.”

“No one knows about this place?” Steve confirmed. “No one? Not H-Hydra. Not SHIELD?”

“No.” Bucky’s shoulders were growing tense. He truly believed Steve would strike him for this. For taking him to this place. For keeping it from Hydra. ( _God Bucky, what did they do to you?_ )

He pushed himself from the wall and stumbled towards his friend. He rested a hand against Bucky’s arm, and he squeezed his shoulder. “Good job,” he told his friend firmly. Surprise crossed Bucky’s face. He lifted his eyes, watching Steve and searching for confirmation. “Good job,” Steve repeated. Bucky’s mouth almost moved to smile. It stopped just before he could. He nodded once, then turned to start busying himself with the cabin.

Steve looked around. It was going to need a lot of work.

* * *

 

Bucky pressed a packet of instant rations into Steve’s hands, then, seeming to realize it wasn’t going to be enough, he gave him five more. Steve stared at them for a long while. “I didn’t know,” he whispered.

“Sir?” Bucky never called him that in private. He'd only use it if they had an audience, and it never failed to make Steve’s skin crawl.

( _“You’re not coming!”_

__

_“Well you’re not going out there alone!”_

__

_“Get back to your post right now!”_

__

_“You’re going to get yourself killed, I’m not letting you go by yourself!”_

__

_“Sergeant Barnes, get back to your post right now and if you leave again I’ll have you sent home with your discharge papers stapled to your forehead.”_

__

_“You wouldn’t dare.”_

__

_“You want to bet? Get marching, Sergeant Barnes.”_

__

_“Yes,_ sir _, Captain America, sir.”_ )

“I didn’t know you were there. I didn’t know you were alive. I didn’t know.” Bucky frowned. He didn’t say anything. Steve didn’t know what he wanted. Absolution? Anger? He didn’t know. His head ached, and the ration packets fell from his hands as he turned his palms over. He pressed trembling fingers to the sides of his head and squeezed. If he squeezed hard enough, maybe it would be enough to block out the sounds of Bucky’s final scream, echoing through the canyon as he fell from a train - abandoned by Steve’s hubris. “I’m sorry,” Steve apologized.

Bucky didn’t seem to know what to do with that. He blinked at Steve, standing with military precision. His hands were motionless at his sides. Steve didn’t know how to fix this. He didn’t know how to fix any of this. Tears pressed to his eyes and he let out a sob. “I’m so sorry,” Steve repeated. “I’m so sorry, Bucky.”

“Whatcha cryin’ for?” Steve’s head snapped up. Bucky’s expression had shifted. Confusion warred with uncertainty. His brow scrunched low and his bottom lip had sucked in. He bit it lightly before turning on his heel and marching towards the back of the cabin. Steve ran Bucky’s voice through his mind. The words had come from a memory, far off and distant. Bucky hadn’t been asking Steve so much as repeating words he’d spoken long ago.

( _“Whatcha cryin’ for?”_

__

_“G’way Bucky.”_

__

_“C’mon. Whatcha cryin’ for?”_

__

_“None of your business.”_

__

_“Want an Abba Zabba? I’ve got some extra.”_

__

_“...okay.”_ )

Steve forced himself to eat the rations. He’d be no use to anyone if he keeled over and died.

* * *

 

The cabin was completely off the grid. There was no running water. There was no electricity. They’d likely freeze once the weather turned cold. There was a wood burning stove in the center of it all, and Steve stared at it blankly for a long while. An ax was resting on the side of the cabin, and he picked it up. They needed wood.

He walked into the trees around the cabin and dedicated himself to the task. He chopped hard, swinging the ax forwards, letting it fly back. He could feel Bucky watching him, silent as a grave. Whenever he had a substantial pile of wood, Bucky would move closer and would start to cart it back to the cabin. Steve tried not to think about how Bucky was lifting logs that no normal human could possibly lift on his own.

Bucky didn’t talk much. He followed commands beautifully. He picked up on non-verbal queues as well, watching Steve and waiting for the exact moment to respond. He’d never been so thorough in the past. Steve wasn’t sure how he felt about that. Bucky’s silence, though, was at least something Steve knew how to work with.

_(“Cap, he’s doing it again…” Jim licked his lips nervously. No one in command knew about Bucky’s ‘pauses.’ They wanted to keep it that way too. It usually happened late at night, when everyone was getting ready for bed, or early in the morning just when they all woke up._

__

_Steve crouched down before his friend. “I got this watch,” he told Jim quietly. Bucky didn’t react. He just continued to stare towards Steve’s chest, barely seeming to note that Steve was there at all. “We’re going to get through this, Buck...we will.” Steve swore._

__

_He wrapped a blanket around Bucky’s shoulders, and he maneuvered him so he was leaning against Steve’s side. As Steve looked out over the encampment, he whispered stories about Brooklyn, Bucky’s sisters, and Winifred Barnes’ cooking. He kept an arm around Bucky’s body, making sure that he was held close and wasn’t cold._

__

_Two hours later, he felt it when Bucky woke up. “Steve?” He sounded groggy, disconnected._

__

_“Go to sleep,” Steve told him “It’s been a long night. I got this watch.”_

__

_“I...do it again?” His voice was quiet, barely a whisper. He brought his knees up closer to his chest. Steve held on tighter._

__

_“Not so bad this time. It’s all right. Go to sleep.”_

__

_“Sorry. I don’t-I’m working on it. I’ll stop. I’m sorry. I-”_

__

_“It’s okay. You’re fine. We’re all fine. It’s okay.” Steve didn’t tell Bucky that he feared one day Bucky was going to pause for so long that he couldn’t wake up again. That he’d be stuck like that, not aware of anything until the enemy snuck up on him from behind and killed him or worse._

__

_There was a ‘worse’, now. There wasn’t before the war. Before the war, Steve thought the worst that could happen was death. But there was a worse. Bucky had seen worse. Steve had pulled him from worse, and now Bucky was healing from worse. “You’re not going back,” Steve swore. Bucky’s shoulders hitched. “You’re not ever going back.”_

__

_“I’ll do better,” Bucky promised. “I’ll stop...pausing…”_

__

_Steve knew he should tell Bucky to go home. He knew that he should tell his friend that it wasn’t safe, that Bucky was pausing more instead of less, and he’d started to falter in the field. He wasn’t okay. Steve knew he should._

__

_“Bucky...there’s a ship-” Steve started._

__

_“No. Don’t. Please.” Steve didn’t press. He just held his friend against him, and stared at their campfire. He promised himself that nothing was going to happen to Bucky. If he repeated it enough times, it might even come true.)_

* * *

 

Steve found Bucky inside the cabin, stacking wood beside the stove. Their list of chores seemed endless. The work was good. It meant something. They’d fixed the roof first. It no longer leaked all over them. Whoever lived here initially (Steve hadn’t asked) had a broom in the closet. Bucky had taken it while Steve was destroying trees, and had swept the debris from the cabin.

He longed to ask Bucky if he’d done it on memory, knowing Steve hadn’t been able to handle the dust during a sweeping. He longed to know if he’d done it because he’d always done it whenever a sweeping needed to be done. He’d wait for Steve to leave, and when Steve came back - the dust was out the door or had settled elsewhere.

He didn’t ask.

The mattress was a lost cause. They burned it, scattering hundreds of bugs in their effort to escape their pyre. Steve grimaced as spiders and insects rushed away by the score. It was uncomfortably disturbing.

At night, Bucky lit a fire in the stove and they slept on the bedrolls that Bucky had acquired prior to their departure. The more Steve realized Bucky packed, the more he wondered just how out of it he’d been when they’d started this journey in the first place. He couldn’t remember seeing any of these things. He found he couldn’t bring himself to care either.

Bucky got them water. He built traps. He knew this land.

“Did you come here? After you killed that man? Did you ever come back?” Steve asked. Bucky didn’t reply. Steve wasn’t sure if Bucky could even remember.

Steve inspected the cabin, searched it for anything they could use. There were dishes and cookware, filthy and in desperate need of a wash. There seemed to be an endless supply of nails. Buckets and buckets were stacked in a shed beside the cabin. Tools of all kinds were scattered next to them: screws and hammers, wrenches and saws.

Steve ran his hand over the shed’s workbench, and frowned when he felt grooves dipping under his fingers. Looking down, he squinted at the bench. Words, carved long ago, were etched into the wood.

_Brooklyn._

__

_3 sisters._

__

_Remember._

__

_Don’t forget._

__

_Don’t tell._

__

_Don’t go back._

__

_SGR._

__

_Help._

__

_Home._

__

_Safe here._

__

_Don’t go._

__

_They will always find you. It’s better to forget._

__

_You don’t want to remember._

__

_Go back._

A new carving, in the same script as the others, fresh and recently added, was at the end.

_Your name is James Buchanan Barnes._

Steve left the shed. Bucky knew what he’d found. Of course he did. There wasn’t anyplace to hide in this cabin. Bucky watched him, quiet and unassuming. He sat with his back to a wall, his knees up, his arms over his knees. He watched Steve without saying a word. Steve didn’t have anything to say either.

No. That’s not true. “You never have to go back.”

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” Bucky told him flatly. Steve flinched. He should have stayed silent.

He wasn’t surprised when that night, Bucky’s eyes stared off into the distance and he didn’t seem aware of anything around him. Steve sat beside him and tried to think of happy stories to tell, but none of them came to mind. He waited as Bucky stayed paused, locked in his own head, and he prayed that Bucky came back soon.

* * *

 

When Steve first woke up from the ice he was given a workshop on how to integrate with society again. He learned that certain behaviors were inappropriate. He learned that words that he’d used all his life were now taboo. He learned that physical interaction with those around him was different.

When he was younger (a phrase he’d come to terms with and preferred to ‘in his day’ or ‘in his time’), he could remember always touching people. An arm around his shoulders, a friendly nudge between friends, a hand through the hair, a body at his side. Everyone had been so tactile, that Steve wasn’t sure what to do with the sudden personal space rules that now prevailed.

During the war, they’d all been so close they were literally eating out of each other’s pockets. Steve had seen, and participated with, more than a few soldiers who just grabbed whatever they wanted out of someone’s pocket. It never meant anything. It was just the way things were. Steve leaned on his men, they leaned on him. It was friendship, camaraderie.

He’d done that to Rumlow once, after a mission. Before his brain caught up with him. He’d just leaned to the side, letting his head sag as his eyes drooped. Rumlow shook him off.

_(“Not exactly something you wanna be doing, Cap,” he warned._

__

_“Hm?”_

__

_“They’ll think you’re gay.”_

__

_“Gay?” Steve repeated flatly._

__

_“Into guys.” Steve refrained from saying he was so tired he couldn’t care if they thought he was into elephants if it meant he could close his eyes for a few minutes. He sat stiffly the rest of the flight to base.)_

In hindsight, Rumlow was apparently a traitorous dick-bag who worked for Hydra. Perhaps his opinions on personal space could be ignored.

Bucky went back and forth on the touching. Steve never knew if it was a good day to touch, or a bad day to touch. Sometimes Bucky melted against him, and other times he was so tense and so nervous, Steve didn’t have any idea what he was supposed to do about it.

At the end of the first month in the cabin, Steve wondered if this was going to be their life now. They couldn’t leave. They couldn’t go back to civilization. If they did, someone would find them. Someone would try to take Bucky away. Maybe it would be Tony. Maybe it would be Clint. Maybe it would be Natasha. Maybe it would be whatever Fury thought passed as SHIELD these days. Steve didn’t know. He didn’t care. He had to keep Bucky safe. He promised.

“Do you...know who I am?” he asked Bucky over dinner. Bucky was good at hunting. He had been in the war too. He always found a deer. Whenever they ran low of food, there would be Bucky, grinning broadly as he presented them with the fruits of his labor. Steve almost found it unfair that Bucky would take his sniper rifle to do the job. He’d sit over a hundred yards out and he’d hit the deer in the head every time. None of the meat was ruined, and they could feed all of the Commandos for a week. He’d killed a rabbit this time. Steve didn’t even know how he found it, but he did.

“Steve Rogers,” Bucky recited dully.

“Yes...but do you know who I am?” Bucky stared at him. Steve felt his head start to spin. He shook it in a desperate effort to stay calm. It’s all right. He was getting better every day. He’ll get better now too.

“You’re my...friend.” Steve had almost prepared himself for the word ‘handler’ and his relief at not being called that was astounding. He sagged openly, and he nodded.

“Yeah, yeah, Buck. I’m your friend.” Bucky returned his attention to his food.

They didn’t talk again for the rest of the night. It was, Steve considered, such a small step, likely meaningless. Bucky almost certainly had no idea what on earth that line meant to him.

That night, Bucky let Steve lean against his side. Steve was so grateful in the morning, he managed to pretend that it didn’t hurt when Bucky eventually pulled away. ( _God_ , Steve thought. _I am getting pathetic._ )

* * *

 

There were good days, and there were bad days.

There were more bad days.

Bucky shook sometimes. Not out of fear. Not from being cold. He just...shook. His eyes rolled back in his head and he fell to the ground, shaking and not stopping for anything. Steve had shouted when it happened, desperately trying to stop him but failing every time. When Bucky woke up, he was rarely lucid. He stared at Steve, locked in like he was on pause, and his mouth fell open with a word he never spoke.

Usually he slept like the dead afterwards. It wasn’t simply an expression. Steve would watch him, wait for his chest to stop moving or for his skin to turn pale. Bucky never died. He survived each night. The shaking never completely stopped.

“What is it?” Steve asked him on a good day.

“You know,” Bucky had told him uselessly, sounding surprised that Steve was asking to begin with.

But he didn’t know. He didn’t understand. There was no way he could find out.

* * *

 

Month two and three fell in similar fashion to month one. Routines were set. Familiarity was gained. Sometimes Bucky almost seemed to know exactly who he was and what was happening. Most of the time, he was quiet and assessing, waiting for Steve to give him a sign. He never knew if he was doing it right.

After spending most of the morning hunting and preparing for winter, Steve entered the cabin to find Bucky pacing. His steps were frantic. His eyes were wild. He was breathing harshly, moving from one end of the cabin to the other. “Bucky?” Steve asked tentatively.

“What the hell is a ‘Bucky?’” Bucky asked sharply, glaring at Steve. Very bad day. Memories mixed up. It happened sometimes.

“You are,” Steve replied. Bucky’s pacing doubled. He moved fast, almost blurring he was moving so quick. “Let’s...go for a run,” Steve suggested. “Get some of the energy out of us?” Bucky burst from the door.

He ran, and he ran fast. Steve ran right behind him. The woods had become their home in the same way that Brooklyn used to be. They’d spent years in Europe, trekking through the woods, and now they were doing it here. Bucky vaulted over fallen trees, he scaled rock ledges, he threw himself off hill mounds. He moved fearlessly and desperately, and Steve followed him every step of the way.  

Bucky never shouted, he never said a word, he just kept moving, as though the mere act of running away was the only thing he strived to accomplish. He ran without stop for hours, and Steve kept him in sight the whole time. He followed him, knowing he’d follow Bucky for as long as it took.

When Bucky finally collapsed, knees hitting the ground and head bent towards the dirt, he was sobbing. “Don’t go, Don’t go. Please. Don’t go.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Steve promised. “I’m with you until the end of the line.”

“They said you were dead,” Bucky’s hands dug into the dir. “I waited, I waited for you to come. They said you were dead. They showed a picture. They said you were dead!”

“I know. I’m so sorry. I know.”

“Where were you?”

“In ice. I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I didn’t know, Buck. I never would have left you there. I didn’t know.” Bucky’s hands fisted in his hair, tangling dirt, leaves, and sticks amongst his dark brown locks.

“I have to go back. I have to go back.”

“Back where?”

“There. I have to go back. They’ll-they’ll find out. They’ll find out. They’ll come and-”

“They’re never going to take you away.” Steve clutched at Bucky’s wrists, dragging them down away from his head. “I’m not going to let them.”

“You can’t stop it. They’re going to come, and it’s going to hurt. They’re going to be mad. They’re-they’re.” Tears were streaming down his face. He was choking on air, gasping desperately for breath. Steve tugged him to his chest.

“I’m not going to let them. I’m not. I’m not. I’m never letting you go again. You’re safe. You’re safe, Buck. I promise. You’re safe.”

“No one’s safe.” Bucky was shaking violently in his grasp. Steve half thought he was going to shake himself unconscious, just like all those other ‘spells’. He didn’t. “No one’s ever safe from them. Don’t you know that?”

_(“Captain, I am sorry to hear of Sergeant Barnes’ death. I understand he was your friend,” Zola was walking forwards in chains, but he slithered like a snake in the grass. Steve’s fists clenched. “I was quite fond of him, while he was in my care.”_

__

_It took every one of the Commandos to hold him back when he went for Zola’s throat. It took Peggy and Philips to talk him down and convince him it was for the best to let Zola go. He knew, even then, that he should have killed Zola. It wasn’t worth leaving him alive._

__

_“You would kill a man in cold blood?” Peggy asked him, afterwards._

__

_“I’d kill him in cold blood.” he had replied.)_

* * *

 

Winter came quick. Steve watched as the world outside their cabin became covered in thick snow. They weren’t dressed for the snow. Bucky had brought only two jackets that could barely be considered warm. They couldn’t, Steve reasoned, have everything. It was all right. They handled it. They’d kept everything while they hunted. They had pelts, they had leather. They made it work. The fire burned endlessly. Smoke billowed up into the sky, and Steve watched it, nervous that someone would see it and know that it was them. As though the smoke could reveal who was living here.

A few of the varmints had slipped into the cottage when the weather turned. They looked at Steve with barely concealed distaste, but they never seemed to take note of Bucky. Steve had watched as Bucky tossed little scraps of food to them, feeding them despite his own hunger. He was barely eating enough. They’d both lost weight since they’d come here, and Steve could see how Bucky’s metal arm listed to one side as his body struggled to maintain its weight. He was off balance, off center, but he still gave his food to the rodents and marsupials that seemed to think they were safe here. They were probably right.

_(“Steven Rogers what have you gotten my boy into this time?” Winifred asked, sighing as she took her son’s face between her palms._

__

_“Ain’t his fault, I started it,” Bucky defended. His mother’s brow raised._

__

_“You?”_

__

_“They were pickin’ on that mutt - the one back behind Old Man Nelson’s shop? Tryin’ ta tie cans to his tail and scarin’ him awful. I ain’t gonna let’em do that to a dog. ‘S not right.”_

__

_“My boy, a true Saint Francis, defender of the strays.” Winifred was smiling towards Steve as she said it. To be fair, he wasn’t even insulted. It was the truth.)_  

Steve slept fitfully. He woke and stared at the ceiling, wondering if the roof would collapse under the weight of the snow, destroying everything. During the day, he pushed the snow off onto the ground, shivering as his numb fingers dug into the patches. He always wore his uniform gloves, but they weren’t the gloves he’d used in the war. These were fingerless, black, useless.

The cold seemed to bite into his skin with every passing second, and he flinched whenever it started to slip bone deep. He’d never liked the snow when he was younger. It had always been just another reason he couldn’t play outside. On top of his asthma, his bad back, his bad everything, and his poor eyesight, his mother worried he’d catch pneumonia (again). She kept him in whenever she could, and Steve stared out the window longing for spring to come and melt the snow away.

It had been better in the war. He’d finally been able to withstand it. But he still had gear, and he was never truly cold.

_(“Hey Bucky!” Steve threw the snowball before his friend had even turned around._

__

_“Wha-ugh! I’m going to get you, Rogers!” Bucky shouted, snow falling from his hair._

__

_“Careful Cap, he means it too,” Dugan laughed.  Steve was already running ahead, hooting as Bucky aimed snowball after snowball at his shield covered back.)_

**  
  
**

Steve supposed that freezing to ( _death?_ ) had put a damper in any growing fondness he had for winter. He was sick of it. He truly was. Not nearly as sick of it as Bucky seemed to be, though.

Bucky looked out into the ice and the snow and he couldn’t manage to move out the door. He stood, locked in place, incapable of movement. “It’s okay,” Steve assured him. “I can do this.” He went and gathered food. He went and brought more wood inside. He went and ensured they were able to survive.

Steve was nervous about the weather. He was uncomfortable with the storm. He hated the chill. He could handle it. Bucky couldn’t. Steve set him up by the fire, covering him with their makeshift blankets. He checked in on him as Bucky shook, eyes rolling back in his head and back arching. “It’s okay...it’s okay.” He pet Bucky’s dark locks. Bucky shivered and shook and was miserable. They should have gone someplace else when the weather turned.

This was a bad idea.

Steve slept by Bucky’s side. It was familiar. It was comforting. They did this in the war, and before it too, when the temperature dropped and they needed the heat. Steve curled around Bucky, Bucky curled around him. The familiarity ached, but he couldn’t care less.

_(“Monty, your toes are way too cold to be touching me like that!” Dugan hissed, shifting unhappily._

__

_“Bucky’s nose is worse.” Steve replied, shifting uselessly. Bucky was still clinging on tight, burrowing his head into the side of his neck. “C’mon Barnes - do you have to be that close?”_

__

_“I’m cold, Steve.”_

__

_“You’re something.” There was a moment of silence. Then:_

__

_“Damn it Gabe, your hands are literally icing over!”_

__

_“Not our fault you’re putting off enough heat to be a furnace in your own right.”_

__

_“Yeah Steve, your the one heat source we have. Do it for your country.”_

__

_“I will kill you in your sleep,” Steve warned his friend unhappily. He could feel Bucky grin, letting a light puffing laugh against him._

__

_“You ain’t gonna kill me, Steve-o. Not yet.”)_

Steve woke up to find Bucky missing. He wasn’t at his side any longer. He sat up sharply, looking around the darkness of the cabin. He fumbled, trying to stand.

“Bucky?” he asked, desperately. No response. “Bucky?”

He walked through the entirety of their home, looking for him in the darkness. He wasn’t inside. Panic gripped Steve’s heart. He needed to move. He ran to the door, throwing it open and peering out into the night. The moon was shining brightly above him, and he could see a body lying in the ground. “Bucky!”

He ran forwards. Snow clung to his legs and seeped into his clothes, he wasn’t dressed for this. He didn’t care. He crouched down and pulled Bucky upright. He’d been curled on his side, lying just like he slept - body tucked in close. He had a small smile on his lips, as though he’d finally been granted the peace he deserved.

“No. No. No. Bucky. Bucky. Bucky,  wake up. Bucky!” Nothing. No response. Steve lifted him, and carried his frozen form him inside within seconds. He lay Bucky by the fire and rubbed at his limbs. “Please. Please. Please. Don’t do this to me. Don’t do this to me. Please. Bucky? Bucky wake up. Bucky.”

Bucky was frozen. His body temperature had dropped dangerously. He was breathing. His heart was beating. He was alive.

Steve was relatively certain he was going to be sick.

He couldn’t do this anymore.

* * *

 

When Bucky woke up in the cabin, he was confused. “Why am I inside?”

“Why were you outside?” Steve asked him. He couldn’t look at Bucky’s face. He stared at the fire, and told himself to breathe.

“There wasn’t a mission. I sleep in the ice when there’s no mission.” Steve wasn’t sure what was worse. That Bucky said the words by rote, or that he believed them so thoroughly he would purposefully go and sleep in the snow.

“There was a mission,” Steve told him stiffly. “The mission is to stay alive, to get better, to heal.”

“It’s concluded. Has it not?” Bucky asked. He was looking at Steve expectantly. “You are...healed?”

“No, Bucky. I’m not. And neither are you.”

“I’m operational-”

“I don’t care!” Steve shouted, slamming his hand on the ground by his side. Bucky flinched. His eyes dropped. His head turned, offering a cheek to strike; his shoulders sagged. Steve forced himself to take a deep breath in. He forced himself to let it go. “Do you know who I am?” he asked Bucky quietly.

“Steve Rogers. My friend,” Bucky repeated.

“When did we meet?” Bucky shifted uncomfortably. Nervously. His eyes flicked up, then dropped back down. “You don’t know anything about me do you? Do you remember anything about yourself?”

“I-”

“Do you know your name?”

“My name is James Buchanan Barnes.” He’d written it on the workbench in the shed. It was the only bit of reality he had left. It was not enough.

“I don’t know what to do, Buck. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.” Steve gave his friend a helpless look. “I just...I need help.”

“You never asked for help a day in your life,” Bucky told him, expression going almost cross eyed as he tried to piece together where the comment had come from. He kept going though. “Always refused it when it came to you. Never wanted noone to help you.”

“That’s not true,” Steve whispered.

“I remember!” Bucky argued back, suddenly angry. “I remember that!”

“I asked you for help.” Bucky flinched. He recoiled badly. “I asked you for help in fighting Hydra. I asked you to stay. You were in pain, you were hurting, you’d just been tortured, and I asked you to stay. I asked you to stay, I let you stay. When you were pausing, and panicking, and terrified-”

“Wasn’t scared, wasn’t scared of nothing. I’m fine. I’m-I was fine. Stop it.” Bucky was shaking his head. He scrambled backwards, pressing himself against the wall of the cabin.

“I asked you to stay, and this is what happened.”

“But I didn’t want to leave you behind,” Bucky whispered.

“Bucky?” There were tears in Bucky’s eyes. They fell down his face and hit his shirt. He wrapped his arms around his body.

“You were gonna get hurt out there, without me. You were. I-I had to stay. To stay and watch your back and-” He choked, trembling and drawing his knees up to his chest. Steve crawled towards him. He took Bucky’s face in his palms.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“Don’t go. Please. You promised. I know it won’t matter when they come. I know. But please don’t go. I’m sorry. I’ll do better. I’ll be better. Don’t go. Please-please don’t leave. Not until they’re here. Please. Please don’t go.”

“I’m never leaving you alone again. Not even if they come. I’m going to keep you safe.”

“Just don’t go. You can leave when they come, but not before - please?”

“I think I need help, Buck. I think….” He took a deep breath. He had to keep breathing. He had to. “I can’t do this by myself.”

“But I’m here,” Bucky told him. Steve drew in a shuddering breath. He nodded. “Steve? I’m here. You’re not by yourself.”

“Are you sure?” Steve asked.

Never in his life had Steve ever set out to intentionally hurt Bucky Barnes. They’d fought. They’d bruised. They’d argued. They’d gotten into spats. But Steve had never wanted to hurt Bucky. It seemed like it didn’t matter what he wanted, though. He always managed to do just that.

Bucky’s tears stopped abruptly. His distraught features faded. His body sagged against the wall. “It’s your decision.” Steve looked at his friend, defeated and broken, and he reminded himself, again, that he needed to breathe. He couldn’t do this alone. He didn’t know who to trust. He was just as lost and adrift as Bucky. He wished he knew which path was the right one.

( _“Greatest generation? You guys did some nasty stuff.”_

__

_“Yeah, we compromised. Sometimes in ways that made us not sleep so well. But we did it so people could be free. This isn’t freedom, this is fear.”_

__

_“SHIELD takes the world as it is, not as we’d like it to be. And it’s getting damn near past time for you to get with that program, Cap.”_

__

_“Don’t hold your breath.”_ )

Steve Rogers was being smothered under the weight of the world, and he couldn’t breathe.

* * *

 

Forty-eight hours later, Steve made a call. He’d gotten permission from a bored gas station attendant who didn’t even bother to look up before motioning with his thumb towards the store phone. Steve dialed a number he’d only seen once, watching as Bucky shivered and tried to hide how cold he was. They were wearing loose clothing, one of the few reasonably clean outfits they had remaining from Bucky’s initial scavenge all those months ago.

“Sam? I don’t know if you remember me...it’s Steve Rogers?” Of course Sam remembered meeting Captain America. “I...I think I could use some help.” Steve watched as Bucky lifted his eyes to look at him. “I have a friend and I-I think we could both use some help.”

  
He only hoped he was making the right choice.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of all the rules that the Asset had been given, not one of them had to do with writing. Bucky stared at the book incredulously, but Steve watched when he carefully started to write. It was like a floodgate had opened. He could write for hours and there was nothing stopping him.

Sam met them in a roadhouse ninety-miles north of Montreal. Bucky was shivering violently at Steve’s side from the moment they left their Cabin, and he was shivering violently still. He kept tugging at his hat, pulling it lower and lower over his eyes so it barely even sat properly on his head. He bunkered into his jacket, and he kept his metal hand tucked firmly in his pocket. He squeezed against the wall, trying desperately to just disappear. Steve wondered if he knew he was just drawing more attention to himself. He didn’t think it was a good time to mention it.

“Hey man,” Sam greeted, looking at the two of them uncertainly. Steve knew how he must look. He hadn’t washed properly in ages. His hair was too long. His beard had grown in. He was the crazy mountain man that his mother always warned him about whenever they went to Westchester. He’d taken better care of himself during the war.

“Hey,” Steve greeted in turn. “I’m sorry about this, but everybody we know is trying to hunt us down.” He’d checked the news before he called Sam. Tony hadn’t been silent in their absence. He’d been adamant and determined to get them back, just as Steve had assumed he would when sobriety hit.

Bucky’s photo was being plastered over every available news agency. Steve was missing - “presumed dead” - and the video of Bucky helping Steve leave Avengers Tower made it look like he’d somehow drugged Steve into compliance. Even their cab driver was accosted and thoroughly questioned.

“He didn’t kidnap me,” Steve explained shortly as Sam slid into the booth across from them.

“Kinda put that together,” Sam replied. “Figured I might be the wrong person to call if you were trying to get rescued.”

“Sorry.” Steve had known the man for all of one jog around the reflection pond and a meaningful talk at the VA hospital. He’d left Sam’s company with a phone number in case he wanted to talk, and a promise he’d think about what made him happy.

“Nah, man, it’s cool. What can I do to help?” Steve opened his mouth to reply, but a waitress came by and asked them what they wanted. Bucky sank lower into the booth, and Steve grimaced.

“Water, please. For, uh, both of us.”

“Yeah, water’s fine for now,” Sam agreed. She smiled at them and left. “You want to just get out of here? You guys don’t look so comfortable.”

“We don’t actually have any money,” Steve mumbled awkwardly. Sam didn’t skip a beat.

“That’s cool, don’t worry about it. I have money.”

“They’ll know,” Bucky whispered. Steve let his eyes fall towards the other faces in the roadhouse. No one was looking their way. His own anxiety was starting to rise.

“Why don’t we head out, then? Not a problem.” Sam, blessedly, seemed perfectly capable of rolling with the punches. Steve nodded. They were up and out of the bar before the waitress came back with their water.

Bucky was jittery. His legs were moving forcefully forwards, but his face was creased with tension. He was convinced that they were going to be caught, that they’d be found, that someone was going to come for them. Steve placed a hand on Bucky’s arm and gave it a squeeze. It did little to calm him down.

“I’ve got a rental?” Sam offered. Steve expected Bucky to protest, but instead he went rigidly tense. He was breathing harshly, but didn’t stop walking. He slipped into the back of Sam’s car, all but exploding at the seams.

“Are you okay with this?” Steve asked him, uncertain.

“It’s your choice,” Bucky told him. He kept his eyes straight ahead. Steve couldn’t even argue that. Bucky had wanted to stay at the cabin. It was off the grid, void of people, and no one was looking for them there. He wanted to sleep in the ice, hibernating like a bear in the winter. He’d wake up in the spring, stretch his limbs, and do it again. He was okay with that. He was okay with sleeping in the ice.

Steve swayed. He caught himself on the door of Sam’s sedan, and he forced himself to breathe. This was why he needed help. This right here. He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t. He didn’t know how to fix it. He tried. He tried to be what Bucky needed. He tried to help him heal. He tried to do it right, and somehow Bucky still decided to walk outside and lay down in the snow.

“Steve?” Sam asked him. “You all right?” he looked up at Sam. He was fine. He was absolutely fine. He didn’t need anything. He just-

He sat down next to Bucky. “There’s a motel not far away….it doesn’t have cameras.” Sam didn’t even question it. He just drove where Steve directed. Bucky wouldn’t stop shaking.

Bucky was almost caught once while on patrol. He’d dropped to one knee and started to shoot at enemy scouts, when a Hydra agent had come up behind him and struck him soundly on the back of the head. He’d fallen, but turned immediately, fighting the man back. Others came to help their comrade, but Bucky held his own. By the time Steve had made it to his side, there were four dead Hydra agents and another well on his way to the afterlife.

_(“Leave me alone,” Bucky hissed at the man, throwing him to the ground. “I’m never going back.”)_

Now, he didn’t fight it. He sat in Sam’s car and he waited, convinced that they were going straight to Hydra, not bothering to try to stop them. _What was the point?_ Steve thought. It was inevitable. Hydra always won.

* * *

Steve watched as Bucky secured himself in the bathroom. He shut the door, rested against it, and Steve could hear Bucky’s shaky breaths as he tried to remain calm. It wasn’t working. Steve wanted to go to him, comfort him, help him. He didn’t know if that was right or wrong. Everything was falling apart. He didn’t know what to do.

“You want to talk?” Sam asked him carefully.

Steve dragged himself to the bed closest to the bathroom door, and he sat down. He sank his head into his hands. “I don’t know. I don’t know.”

“Okay, that’s fine.” Sam sat in a chair across from him. “That’s fine.”

No one talked. They just sat in silence and listened to each other breathe.

It didn’t help, but it didn’t hurt either.

Steve knew that he should probably explain, he should probably put to words exactly what he wanted out of calling Sam, but he couldn’t manage to do it. He couldn’t manage to formulate a response. He didn’t have one to give. He didn’t know what he was meant to do, he didn’t know how badly he was messing this up, he didn’t know how to fix it. He half hoped that Sam could just take one look at them and divine the answers from sight alone. That Sam could wave his hand, and his years as a soldier and trauma counselor would help him to just piece them back together again.

_(Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall_

__

_Humpty Dumpty had a great fall_

__

_And all the King’s horses and all the King’s men_

__

_Well they just couldn’t put Humpty Dumpty together again!)_

When the talking finally came, it came out stuttering and weak. Half the time, Steve didn’t think he was being coherent. Sam ordered them pizza and Steve managed to coax Bucky from the bathroom to eat it. Steve told Sam everything he knew. They left because Bucky had killed Tony’s parents, and Tony didn’t want them there. They hid, because that’s what happened afterwards. There was no long term plan associated to it, and it had been natural to just go to ground and leave it at that.

They couldn’t do it anymore. Sam’s brows furrowed when Steve explained how he found Bucky in the snow. Bucky, for his part, did little more than sit still, listen to Steve, and not get involved. He didn’t talk much as it was. Now, with nothing directed to him, with Steve taking the lead, Bucky was entirely mute, waiting fatalistically for the end.

Sam could turn them in at any moment, if he hadn’t already when he called in the pizza. Sam could be biding time. He could be waiting for the police to get into position, for the Avengers to arrive, for the cavalry to come. He could be waiting for the opportunity to send out a text, make a call, or do anything that would end this for good. Bucky knew it, and Steve knew it.

Their lives were in the hands of a man Steve had met twice. There was no one else Steve knew. It was Sam, or nothing. Anyone else would make the right choice and turn them in. He prayed Sam didn’t.

“It’s a good thing you’re reaching out,” Sam eventually said. “You’re right, living like that probably wasn’t the best course of action.” Steve knew there was a ‘but’ coming, and it came in due time. “But...I’m not the best person to talk to about this, Steve.”

“You’re the only one we’ve got,” Steve replied.

“I’m not a medical doctor, and I’ve only got two years into my psyche degree. I’m a certified trauma counselor, but I’m not a psychologist - or a psychiatrist for that matter. There are people who are better qualified, who have more experience-”

“More experience dealing with someone who’s been through seventy years of brainwashing and torture?” Steve cut in. Sam hesitated. “You’re the only one we’ve got,” Steve repeated. “We don’t have anyone else.”

Sam met his eyes, and he held his gaze. Steve didn’t know what he was thinking, but he must have been trying to put the pieces together. He must have been trying to come up with some kind of plan of action. He must have realized that Steve was desperate. He nodded his head.

“Okay. Okay then. Let’s figure this out.” Sam licked his lips and shifted his posture. _Sam_ , Steve realized, _was a saint_.  “Bucky, do you want me to talk to you, or to Steve?”

“It doesn’t matter.” Bucky dropped his crust onto a paper plate. He hugged his arms across his chest tightly, and kept his face turned away.

“Okay then.” Sam paused, consideringly. “Does being here make you uncomfortable?” Bucky didn’t reply. “Do you even want me here?”

“Steve does.” Steve almost apologized for Bucky’s responses, but Sam didn’t seem to care.

“Do you want me to leave?” _(No, no you can’t leave. You can’t leave. I can’t fix this. I can’t help him. I need you to stay. I need someone to help him. I can’t do it by myself.)_

__

Bucky nodded stiffly.  “But you can’t,” he continued, as though his posture wasn’t begging Sam to do just that, to leave and never come back. "Steve needs you.”

“You’re allowed to have needs too.”

“I need him to be okay,” Bucky replied. Steve’s heart damn near bust in his chest. “And he’s not.” Bucky lifted his head. “Stay.” He was still shaking. He still clearly didn’t trust Sam as far as he could throw him, but he cared about Steve. That, Steve considered, was likely more than they could ever hope for.

* * *

Sam told Bucky to choose. They went where he wanted. They followed his lead. They did what they had to do for Bucky to feel safe. Steve half expected that they would be led back into the woods, brought to another rundown cabin that no one knew of.

They weren’t.

Bucky cut his hair, shaved his face, he asked Sam to buy him trendy clothes that a normal twenty year old kid would wear. He pulled on jeans and a T-shirt, he wore aviator sunglasses, he smiled a smile so fake that it looked real to everyone else. He walked in public, and despite the world seeing his face on their televisions every day for the past seven months - no one so much as glanced in his direction.

Steve kept his hair long. He brushed it, trimmed his beard so it didn’t scraggle and was well groomed. He wore clothes that made him look like a business professional, despite his long hair. They hid his shield in a large portfolio bag. He was an artist. His name was George Martin. He had a backstory, a history, a life. Bucky was now Christian Lawrence. A photographer.

Sam remained Sam Wilson. His identity never changed. They all travelled together. Steve couldn’t explain how Bucky left one day, then came back with fresh IDs for them. He couldn’t explain the cash that Bucky seemed to have access to. He couldn’t explain any of it.

“I listened,” Bucky told him. “I paid attention.” It was not an answer.

_(“Buck...Bucky...what’s the answer to number four?”_

__

_“Steven Grant Rogers, are you cheating?”_

__

_“No, Mrs. Redfield.”_

__

_“Do you understand cheating is wrong?”_

__

_“Yes, Mrs. Redfield.”_

__

_“What do you have to say for yourself?”_

__

_“I still don’t know the answer to number four.”)_

They kept moving until they found a cozy townhome in Texas. Rent was paid each month in cash. Sam started working at a local VA hospital and had his things shipped over from DC. He never commented on Bucky's choice, though he did look slightly confused by it. Steve didn’t blame him. The town was everything that Bucky had hated growing up. It was rural, its neighbors pesky and nosy, and it was slanted so politically that in the few minutes that they were there, Sam’s Toyota had received more than a few dirty looks. American made only - there wasn’t a foreign car in town.

Sam didn’t entirely seem comfortable in the town, and it didn’t take long to find out why. He was the only black man in a thirty mile radius, and Steve immediately knew it was going to cause tensions. “We should probably go somewhere a little less racially charged,” Steve suggested to Bucky.

“No one is looking for us here,” Bucky murmured. That was true too. Despite the news channel playing all the tim with Steve and Bucky’s pictures constantly being broadcasted, no one so much as bat an eye at them. They had disappeared, melting into the background because their companion was drawing all of their suspicion and disapproval.

“It’s not fair to Sam,” Steve countered.

“Actually, it makes sense,” Sam allowed. Bucky didn’t appear vindicated by his approval. If anything, his shoulders slumped and his head turned away. “No one is looking at you two.”

“I don’t want you to be uncomfortable when you’re the one helping us out.”

“Steve, I fought a war, same as you. If I can’t handle a few ass holes, then I shouldn’t be a counselor, and I have thinner skin than I thought. It’s fine. I promised you I’d help, and I promised him we’d go wherever he felt safe.” It still felt wrong, but Steve relented.

They settled into their townhome, and started to attempt normalcy. Sam made it clear that despite the fact he was helping them, and even living with them, he was not going to spend every minute of his day with them. He worked with the VA office in DC, something both Steve and Bucky were aware of, and Bucky marginally approved, and he transferred officially to a local office in the next town. (His Toyota eventually was traded in for a Ford, however. Some battles just weren’t worth fighting). Sam’s classes for his degree were being taken online, and so he continued his studies there without a break or lapse.

Bucky’s mystery money was enough to cover all of their expenses, but Sam still took home a paycheck regardless, and he did his own part. For the first few days, Steve half expected Sam to nod his head, settle Bucky on the couch and ask him about the snow. He didn’t. He didn’t actually do or say much of anything that sounded ‘trauma counselor-y’. He talked lightly about food they needed and preferred, appliances that they should consider purchasing, wardrobe choices, etc. He didn’t talk about Hydra or SHIELD, he didn’t talk about the cabin, and he didn’t ask either of them to share.

If anything, it seemed like he was waiting for something, though Steve didn’t have any idea what that might be. Bucky always watched Sam whenever he was in the room, keeping his eyes on him and memorizing his progress. He never went out of his way to interact with Sam either, and Steve wished he could just force them to do this.

If they were just going to dance around the issue, then what was even the point of moving to Texas? What was the point of leaving Canada? Why even bother to talk to Sam to begin with?

“Do you want to come by the VA hospital?” Sam asked Steve casually. “Check out what’s new down here?”

“No, I’m fine.” Sam nodded his head and returned to the dinner he was making. It was pasta, an easy dish that didn’t take much time, effort, or energy. Bucky had been loitering in the kitchen since Sam had started to cook, but he turned away, as though he’d gotten the answer to something he’d been wondering about for a while.

“You leave since we got here?” Sam asked curiously. The question struck Steve as odd, and it took him a moment to realize Sam was asking him that. Bucky had already gone, and there was no point in Sam questioning him about it. When Sam turned to look at him full on, expectantly, Steve stuttered a response.

“Uh-No. No I mean, I’ve been here. With Bucky.” _(You know, the guy you’re supposed to be helping?)_

“What do you think’s going to happen if you do?” Sam asked. Steve frowned at the question.

“I don’t understand.”

“What’s keeping you from leaving the house? Why haven’t you gone out at all? No one’s looking for you here.”  

“I don’t know I-maybe Bucky’ll be gone when I get back?” No, that wasn’t it. “It just feels like...if I step out that door I’ll wake up, and it’s all a dream.” It didn’t make any sense. Sam didn’t ask him to explain.

“He’s here, Steve,” Sam told him. “He’s really here.” Steve nodded. He knew that. He did. But it was so hard to believe that this was real.

* * *

There was finally a name for Bucky’s shakes.

Steve saw the warning signs before the most recent one started. Sam was getting ready to leave for the VA, and Bucky had been standing just to Steve’s left when his face twisted with grief. He gave Steve a betrayed look, and then he fell. Sam didn’t stop once. He dropped his bag, strode forwards, and started to move the nearby furniture away from Bucky’s immediate vicinity. He snatched a pillow from the couch and he slid it under Bucky’s head. He pulled out his cell phone (a burner phone that Bucky had purchased and given to Sam unhappily) and called the VA to tell them that something had come up and he couldn’t come in, he looked at his watch the whole time, hanging up when he could. He was counting minutes, Steve realized, tracking the length of the event. One minute. Two minutes. Three minutes. Four. Bucky stopped shaking.

“There you go, there you go. You’re all right,” Sam soothed. “Get him a blanket,” he directed to Steve. Steve did. They draped it over Bucky’s body. He mumbled something, disoriented. His eyes blinked blearily towards them and Steve could see that he was inches from sleep. “Go ahead and just rest. It’s all right. It’s all right.” Bucky’s eyes started to close, and his body finally relaxed.

“What is this? What is he doing?”

“They’re called seizures. They ever happen before?” Steve nodded. He tried to remember anything he could think of.  He told Sam about the partial twitches he’d observed, he told him about subtle jerks he noticed, he told him about every single time Bucky hit the ground shaking so bad he couldn’t stay upright. “Has he ever said anything about it?”

“He said I knew what they were.”

“Has he ever done anything like this? Before or after the war? Not shaking exactly, just anything else?” Steve opened his mouth to refute it. He stopped.

“He...he stares out into space sometimes.”

“How long?”

“He did it in the war. After- after Zola had him.”

“No, how long did it last? The episode itself, when he starts to stare.”

“I don’t know - it varies? Sometimes it’s a few seconds, sometimes a few minutes, sometimes a few hours.”

“Is it usually more than fifteen minutes?”

“No. Not usually? Most of the time it's quick, I don’t know. But sometimes, yes?” Sam grimaced and glanced back towards Bucky. “What?”

“I’m _not_ a medical doctor, man,” Sam told him. “He needs a medical doctor. These seizures? These I can recognize. They’re kind of hard to miss. But I can’t tell you what’s causing them. I definitely can’t fix them. The staring? That could be another kind of seizure, it could be PTSD. It could be a hell of a lot of other things. I don’t know.”

“I thought seizures were just shaking?”

“No, it’s an effect of what’s happening in his head. There are electric signals not working right in his head. Signals firing wrong, chemicals not balancing properly. I can’t explain that bit very well, I’m not that kind of doctor. Hell, I’m only halfway through my psyche courses as it is. There are anticonvulsants he could take for the seizures, but I couldn’t even begin to guess what dose he’d need considering his metabolism and genetic makeup.”

Steve didn’t know what to say or where to start. They’d tentatively discussed doctors earlier, but Bucky had been so adamant against that that it wasn’t worth discussing again. Bucky already knew he had seizures, that wasn’t something that was unique. He wouldn’t consider this a reason to go to see a doctor now. Steve couldn’t blame here. Doctors had made him an experiment for seventy years. Of course he wouldn’t want to to go the doctors.

When Bucky’s consciousness started to come back, he shifted his eyes towards them. Steve reached towards him, and rested his hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Hey...hey Bucky…” Bucky didn’t meet his gaze.

“Can I go to my room?” Bucky asked him flatly. Sam had made it clear when they first moved in that Bucky could do whatever he wanted in that room. It was his. His choice. No one would take it away from it or enter without his position. Bucky never went into it. Right now...this? This was Bucky upset, and Steve didn’t understand why.

“Wha-yeah, yeah of course you can. You don’t need to-” he was gone before Steve could say another word. He didn’t know what he’d done wrong.

* * *

Sam brought home books on seizures and epilepsy. He printed out documents from the library, and he handed them to Steve so he knew what to expect. He explained everything, as best as he was able, and Steve thanked him as he listened. But when he offered to explain it to Bucky, Bucky refused.

“I don’t need to know what they are,” he told them. “You already do.”

“No, we don’t. I don’t,” Steve replied, feeling like they’d lost ground somewhere along the way. “I don’t know what they are. I don’t know how to fix it.” Bucky made a disgusted noise, but didn’t press the issue. Sam did for him.

“Why do you think he knows?” Sam asked Bucky seriously.

“Because they always do.”

“Who?”

“ _Them_. They always knew. The asset cannot be in the field for more than seventy-two hours. The asset must only be operational if in the field, he is not to sleep. The asset must obey all commands given by a superior officer. All personnel are to be considered superior officers.” He kept going. There were dozens of rules and regulations, and despite Bucky’s permanently choppy memory, these seemed to come naturally.

Steve was going to be sick again. He pressed a hand to his mouth and swallowed the bile that was rising. Every time Bucky spoke about what Hydra did to him, he was sick. He couldn’t stop it. He needed air. He pushed himself from the table and walked to their backdoor. He sat on the back steps, staring at the townhome’s shared yard.

He could hear Sam and Bucky inside. He hadn’t shut the door.

“Bucky, can you tell me what you’re thinking right now?”

“He’s mad at me. I’ve done something wrong. I should be punished.” This was new. Bucky never talked about punishment at the cabin. He only knew that something awful would happen when they finally came for him. He never put a name to what that awful thing was. Steve supposed ‘punishment’ was as good of a word as any.

“He’s not mad at you,” Sam replied gently. “He’s upset, yes, but not at you.”

“I should be punished.” There was a wobble in Bucky’s voice, as though he was about to start falling into the tailspin of hysteria that was always drifting close to the surface these days. He’d been confident they would be safe at the cabin. Here, he was trying so hard for Steve, and it was tearing him apart.

They should just go back. Steve was the one who let Bucky down. It made sense that he should be the one to deal with this. He had to get better. He had to be what Bucky wanted. What Steve wanted and needed didn’t matter, so long as Bucky was safe.

“Okay. How should you be punished?”

“That’s not for me to decide,” Bucky replied snidely.

“How were you punished before?”

“I don’t remember. They made me forget.”

“They made you forget?” Sam repeated slowly.

“With the chair,” Bucky sounded almost impatient. Steve was reminded suddenly of a chair with spinning rims by its headrest. He pushed himself to his feet and went back inside.

“The chair - the chair in the vault?” he asked. Bucky looked startled at his appearance, but nodded. “How did it make you forget?” Steve asked. “What did it do?”

“I-you know already.”

“Why would I know?”

“Because you _worked_ with them. You know. You _know_. Everyone knew. It makes it stop. It makes it stop and I go to sleep, and I just want to go to sleep, but you woke me up. _Why_ did you wake me up?” Bucky had never raised his voice before. He was raising it now. He was angry. _(Not angry, scared. He’s lashing out.)_

“I don’t work for Hydra,” Steve told Bucky softly.

_“I know that!”_ Bucky shouted. He slammed his fist into the side of his own head, and gripped his hair tight. Steve made a choked sound and reached for him, desperate to pull his hands down so he didn’t hurt himself. Bucky responded by ducking away, backing up until he was pressed against the wall. Hie eyes were wide with terror. “But you woke me up, and it gets mixed up, and I know you’re not - but if you’re not, I’ve got to go back. I’ll- they’ll be mad. The’re mad. They’ve-I’ve got-”

“Bucky?” Sam asked him. “Bucky, I need you to do something for me, okay?” Bucky’s other hand reached up and squeezed the opposite side of his head. Steve was frozen, watching it like a mannequin trapped on a pedestal. He couldn’t move forwards. He couldn’t speak. He was locked in this gruesome tableau, watching as his closest friend splintered into pieces before his eyes, hand outstretched and useless. “Bucky I want you to count backwards from ten, then take a breath, okay?”

Bucky spat the numbers out. “Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one.” He took a breath.

“Do it again,” Sam told him. He did. Sam prompted him to continue. Again. Again.

“Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one.”

Again.

Again.

Steve found himself repeating the words in his head, following the mantra as it cycled in circles. Bucky’s breathing had started to slow, and his hands dropped from his head. He stared at Sam, dull and blank like a faded painting. His features were washed away, blurring almost under the weight of his apathy.

“Good, that’s good. Can you sit down?” Sam motioned towards one of the kitchen chairs. Bucky sat. “Let’s talk, okay? Do you want Steve here?”

“It’s not for me to decide,” he replied. He sounded lost.  

“Yeah, Buck, yeah it is,” Sam told him. Steve almost laughed. If there was one thing that Sam’s counting display had shown them all: Bucky didn’t decide anything. He followed orders, and he listened to commands. Steve squeezed the bridge of his nose and tried very hard not to feel like the weight of the world pressing down on his shoulders.

“Never kept nothin’ from him before,” Bucky murmured. His features twisted unhappily. Steve almost laughed. It wasn’t true.

_(They marched through the nights. Steve put the sick and wounded in the vehicles they stole, and the rest continued the walk back to base. Bucky followed him the whole while. He stared at Steve’s back, he watched Steve’s face. He loitered by Steve’s arm. He was battered, bruised, broken._

__

_Sometimes Steve would look at him and see nothing but pain and confusion on Bucky’s face. Bucky would look at him and not recognize what he saw. It hurt._

__

_By the end of the third night, Bucky’s bruises had almost completely healed. His cuts were gone. “You healed fast,” Steve commented. Bucky stared down at his hands._

__

_“Yeah,” he agreed quietly._

__

_By the time they were back at base, by the time they were relocated to London, by the time they were sitting side by side in a bar, Bucky was unmarred and unhindered. His eyes had dark circles under them. His clothes were rumbled. His hair was long. He wasn’t damaged even slightly._

__

_They never talked about it._

__

_They should have.)_

“Do you want to keep something from him now?” The expression on Bucky’s face could only be described as tragic. He mouth opened and closed a few times, his eyes flicked from Sam to Steve. He eventually shook his head.

“The Asset is not permitted to speak when not on assignment. The Asset is only meant to give mission reports or commands in the field in order to complete the assignment.”

“You’re not the Asset anymore,” Sam told Bucky gently. When Bucky looked back at him, his expression twisted terribly. Steve could read it without words. _(Then what am I?)_ He wasn’t surprised when Bucky didn’t speak for the rest of the night.

 

* * *

Sam bought Steve a sketchbook. It was a pretty thing with thick pages and a spiral on the side. At first, Steve had stared at it without any idea what Sam was intending. He supposed it had to do with his cover as an artist, and if nothing else - it was the reason he began to use it. If someone ever did ask, he should have something to show, proof that he was who he said he was.

Sam bought him a box of pencils, nothing fancy, and Steve spent his days dragging one of them across the pages of his book. He drew dark walls and dark corners. He drew rooms with no doors, and windows whose trim looked like bars. He drew faces turned away. He drew bombed out buildings in Europe.

Sam also bought Steve books on depression.

Sam, Steve thought, was focussing on the wrong person.

“Steve,” Sam said, sighing as though Steve was being purposefully obtuse. “I’m really not.”

“What the hell does that mean?” Sam looked at him patiently, and didn’t say a word. If there was one thing people in this house were good at, it was not speaking to each other.

Steve hated it.

* * *

Bucky had a notebook of his own. After his breakdown in the kitchen, Sam had purchased it, and encouraged him to write whatever he wanted. Of all the rules that the Asset had been given, not one of them had to do with writing. Bucky stared at the book incredulously, but Steve watched when he carefully started to write. It was like a floodgate had opened. He could write for hours and there was nothing stopping him.

Bucky’s handwriting was abysmal. He’d spent so many years not writing, that when Steve passed by him the letters were shaky and too large. As days passed, Bucky’s talent improved. He carefully wrote each word down, focussed on making the letters perfect. When he was done, he set the book to the side and he tucked the pencil in the binding. Steve wasn’t sure if he was imagining it, but Bucky looked less anxious as the days drifted by. The writing was doing something, but Steve had no idea it would be so cathartic.

He truly had no intentions of asking, but Bucky slowly started to hand the pages to him to read. “Speaking is hard,” Bucky told him shortly. “I’m...not allowed to speak.”

“You are. You are-”

“I know. But I don’t. I can’t. It’s hard.” Steve nodded. “I want...I want to talk to you. I don’t know...how to say it.”

“You don’t have to.” Steve held open his hands, and Bucky gave him what he wanted to say. He gave him pages. He gave him notes. Eventually, he gave him his whole notebook.

Speaking was hard, but Steve remembered all too easily how the Winter Soldier had used writing as a way to escape in the past. He’d carved his memories into a bench in a cabin no one knew existed. He wrote out demands to himself, urging himself to not lose sight of who he was.

_(My name is James Buchanan Barnes.)_

Each time Bucky gave Steve a piece of his notebook, he shifted nervously. He shoved pages at Steve and backed away, waiting for the moment when Steve would realize he’d been bad enough to merit whatever punishment Hydra had convinced him he’d needed. Steve resolved that he would never do anything to show Bucky that that was true.

_I dreamed that I was free, that when I woke up I was in a home. There were sisters and parents, and friends. I think I liked to dance, but I don’t remember how._

__

_Darren Mills was nice. He gave me chocolate._

__

_My mother liked the color green, she wore it all the time. My father bought her a new green dress every year on their anniversary. She wore it around the house, and sometimes she wore it to a show._

__

_Steve is my best friend. He’s not my handler. He’s not my trainer. He’s my mission. He has been since before everything. I keep him safe. That’s what I’ve always done. I keep him safe. Please, God, just let me keep him safe._

__

_I killed a child in Stalingrad. She was collateral damage. She saw me. No one is supposed to see me._

__

_Zola was there. He was always there. He was there, lurking in the background like a nightmare I was never going to be rid of. The Russians found me first. They promised they’d help me get home. They promised it would be all right, but they lied. I stayed with them for years. I couldn’t remember. Why couldn’t I remember? They traded me to Hydra, Hydra smuggled me to America. I couldn’t speak. It hurt. My arm hurt. I lost it in the fall. There were years there - I remember being in the dark. It was dark, and cold, and my hair grew for the first time. Zola opened the door. He was standing in the light. He was the first person I saw in years._

__

_I wish he’d left me in the dark._

__

_It hurt so much to leave._

__

_Gabriel Jones, James Montgomery Falsworth, James Morita, Jacques Dernier, Timothy Dugan. The Howling Commandos. They’re my friends. I had friends. They were not assets. They were comrades. They were…We were in Hydra together. But we didn’t fight. We were prisoners. We didn’t want to be there. I didn’t want to be there._

__

_Steve will save me._

__

_They found out about the chocolate. They had me kill Darren Mills. I didn’t realize who he was. I’m not sure I care. I feel guilty that I don’t care. He was kind. I should care. Why don’t I care?_

__

_Steve promised he wouldn’t let it happen. Steve never breaks his promises._

__

_Zola said I was to be the new fist of Hydra. He gave me an arm. Howard Stark helped. I want to go home. I don’t want to remember. Remembering hurts._

__

  1. _Sam is not Hydra. Sam doesn’t hurt, and Hydra doesn’t wear crocs._

  2. _Steve is not Hydra. Steve is my friend. He’s a smart ass punk. I met him when we were seven. He picked a fight with Johnny McGreggor after Johnny knocked Sally Rhodes books into the mud. He picked a fight with everyone we knew. He was always getting into trouble. He was sick all the time. We had to call the priest four times on him._

  3. _I’m Presbyterian. Steve’s Catholic. It never mattered._

  4. _Becca, Emily, and Elizabeth are my sisters. Becca had a crush on Steve, but then she got older and found someone useless. I never liked him._

  5. _Steve loves Peggy Carter._

  6. _The world moved on without us, and no one even noticed._




__

_I think I killed a president._

__

_I used to shake before the war. I never told Steve because he was sick enough as it was, he didn’t need to deal with me too. It got worse after the war. Has the war ever really ended? When did we stop?_

__

_This is how they made me:_

_I didn’t do what they asked. They told me that they would hurt me if I didn’t comply. I didn’t comply, and it hurt. I heal fast. I know how fast. A broken bone takes six days to be completely healed. A bruised organ takes one day. A lacerated organ is closed within twelve hours, it is completely healed after four days. I can remain functional with up to forty percent blood loss. Burns heal after two days. I cannot regrow any appendage that is lost. I used to have my elbow (I think I lost my arm trying to grab a rock on my way down. It tore and I fell. I remember that. It hurt the worst. ~~Is my arm still clinging to a cliff somewhere?~~ )_

__

_If I don’t eat anything after a month I will be reduced to zero percent body fat and will be in critical condition. I need water every day. These two are non negotiable. They almost killed me. They didn’t realize. I just wanted it to be over._

__

_Zola asked why I was trying so hard to fight them. It had been fifteen years. Why bother?_

__

_I told them Steve was coming. He was coming for me. I was going to leave. I was going to go home. I couldn’t give in before then. Steve would hate the man I became._

__

_They told me Steve was dead. Peggy had married someone else. My Commandos had retired. Howard worked with Zola. He’s the one who made my arm. They told me everything._

__

_They asked if I wanted to forget._

__

_I said yes. What did it matter if I kept fighting? They were never going to stop. They were going to keep going forever. They’re still going to keep going._

__

_They had a chair, and it hurt every time. I sat down, they tied me down, and there was electricity everywhere. It hurt, and I remember it always hurting. But I remember each time that I asked for it. I don’t want to remember. It’s easier not to remember. I’m tired of fighting them. There’s no point._

__

_Zola told me that he was never going to let me go. He promised. He always keeps his promises. He’s always going to be there. Even when he died, he was there. He’s never going to leave Steve. I just want him to go away. I don’t want to go back, but he’s always going to be there. He’s a cancer, growing indefinitely and clinging to everything. He’s Hydra._

__

_Not Schmitt, not Pierce, not any of them. He’s the one that made everything possible, and he’s never going to stop._

__

_The shakes get worse every time they use the chair. I pause more frequently too. They would use the chair, then put me to sleep on the ice, and the cold made it better. Everything slowed down, and sometimes I would dream. It would be quiet and calm, and it was away from them. Not permanently, never permanently, but it was enough._

__

_Whenever the shakes started on a mission, they’d take me back. They’d put me in the chair. They’d put me on ice. I could forget everything and sleep again._

__

_Steve - please. It’s not your fault. I’m sorry. I’m still here. I am. I just don’t know how to show you. Please don’t go. I’m here. I remember you. I remember you. Please don’t give up on me._

Steve placed the notebook to the side. He stood up. He walked to his friend. “Bucky?” he asked. Bucky didn’t look up. “Can I hold you?” Steve asked him.

Bucky’s head jerked in a hasty nod. Steve held him close, and he promised himself he was never going to let him go.

“I’m...sorry,” Bucky told him, tense and uncomfortable.

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” Steve told him.

“Neither do you,” Bucky countered.

“That’s not true.”

“You can’t absolve me without your own absolution.”

“Bucky…”

“Sam says you need to forgive yourself too,” Bucky grew more tense the more he spoke. Arguing, apparently, was something they’d need to work on too. It was progress, Steve knew, that they even got this far.

“Sam’s a smart guy,” Steve told him.

“So listen to him. I-I forgive you. You-you should forgive yourself too.” Steve felt tears pressing in his eyes.

“I’ll work on it. How’s it going for you?”

“I’m...working on it.”  He was so tense that Steve knew he’d pushed it too much. He let him go.

“You’re doing good, Buck. You really are.” This time Bucky did smile. Just a quick quirk of the lips. He reached over with his pen and he wrote down two words.

Thank you.

  
It had been one year and four months since Steve found him in a tube, and for the first time it felt like they’d finally taken one step forwards. It was a start that was well worth the wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again for your continued reading of this story! I hope you enjoy this and future installments!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve left the house and bought groceries. He planned it with Sam beforehand. Sam would stay back with Bucky and make sure he was okay, and Steve would leave the house. They were going to have pasta for dinner, and they needed red sauce. Steve would go and get it. He hesitated at the door, staring at it as though it was going to burst into flames.
> 
> (“You’re a recluse, Steve.”
> 
> “I can’t leave him.”
> 
> “He’s a recluse too. Are you just going to live in this house for the rest of your life?”
> 
> “I can’t leave. I can’t. I-” he realized what he was saying. “I can’t leave…”
> 
> “Yeah...you should probably work on that.”)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Steve's religious faith, and Bucky's, are discussed within this chapter. Please note that these views on religion are the characters and not the author's. Their experiences with faith, and their interactions with those of opposite faiths is from the culture of the early 1900s. This makes their opinions neither right nor wrong, but a different culture that is separate from what many people feel today. Each person should practice, or not practice, however makes them feel most comfortable. 
> 
> Continually, Steve suffers from a major panic attack this chapter. Please tread carefully if you are easily triggered.

Steve left the house and bought groceries. He planned it with Sam beforehand. Sam would stay back with Bucky and make sure he was okay, and Steve would leave the house. They were going to have pasta for dinner, and they needed red sauce. Steve would go and get it. He hesitated at the door, staring at it as though it was going to burst into flames.

 

_(“You’re a recluse, Steve.”_

_“I can’t leave him.”_

_“He’s a recluse too. Are you just going to live in this house for the rest of your life?”_

_“I can’t leave. I can’t. I-” he realized what he was saying. “I can’t leave…”_

_“Yeah...you should probably work on that.”)_

 

Bucky watched him from the stairs, quiet and focused. Steve glanced towards him. His notebook was in his palms, and his pencil was twisted between his fingers. Steve opened his mouth to say something, but no words came out. _(This was ridiculous.)_ Bucky pressed his lips together tightly and twisted his notebook around. He scratched words on the page, tore the page out, and crumpled it into a ball. He threw it at Steve, and neither were impressed when he let it bounce off him and hit the ground.

 

For a moment, Bucky’s face paled, as though he’d done something horrendously wrong, but Steve was too stunned by the action to begin with to know what to say. He shook his head, “Wait,” and reached for it. He carefully picked up the piece of paper and unfolded it.

 

_Just go already, Punk._

 

He looked back towards Bucky, now seeming on the verge of fleeing, and forced a smile. “Okay. Yeah. Okay. I’ll - uh- be back soon.”

 

He turned back to the door, and pulled in a long breath of air. Reaching for the knob, he turned it, and he stepped out into the Texan sun.

 

Steve had watched this street from his window for months. He’d seen cars pulling up and down the driveway, he’d seen children playing on the sidewalk, he’d seen people moving about. He knew this street. He knew exactly where things were and what to do. It was a street. Nothing special about it, and yet every step away from the house only managed to ratchet up his anxiety.

 

Sam had offered to go with him, but Steve refused. Someone had to be with Bucky. Someone had to make sure Bucky was all right. Someone had to be there in case he had another seizure, in case he didn’t stop and needed medical attention, despite his protests. Someone-someone had to be there. Steve didn’t need the help. He was fine. He was going to the grocery store. He was going to pick up red sauce. They were going to have dinner.

 

This was simple. Easy.

 

He was fine.  

 

Anxiously, he ran his hand through his hair. When he was younger, he’d always had bangs falling in his eyes. He’d combed it over to the left and always fidgeted with it, keeping it in place. Now, his hair was just passed his chin. It was too short to pull back in a tail, but it still got in his face. He tucked it behind his ears, flattening it out when the heat made it frizz.

 

He’d noticed, with no small amount of satisfaction, that he didn’t recognize himself anymore. He looked in the mirror and saw a man he never knew existed. He saw someone who was bone weary and tired, and was just focused on getting through the day. He saw a man who wasn’t trying to impress anyone else, who wasn’t trying to be a good influence, who was just returned to his basest form.

 

In truth, he’d cut his hair almost five times since they’d arrived in Texas. Each time, he’d only trimmed it back into position, letting it stay at his chin. He liked it. Absurdly, despite the initial decision to grow it out to hide himself from the world, the decision to keep it was relaxing. It was easy. He didn’t belong to anyone but himself, and even if he was a slave to his own anxiety and depression _(Yes, Sam, I’m paying attention)_ it was his.

 

Last week, Steve had cut it again, and Bucky had frowned when he’d stepped out of the bathroom. He’d made a vague motion with his hand, but Steve hadn’t known what he wanted. After repeating the motion, Steve turned to Sam helplessly. “You should pay attention to those signing books more,” Sam had laughed, shaking his head. He’d been teaching Bucky ASL for when he was nonverbal and couldn’t get the words out. Sign language was another thing that the Winter Soldier had no specific orders against, and Sam was getting good at finding every  loophole he could exploit. “He’s saying it’s uneven,”  Sam translated helpfully. Bucky had actually gone so far as to look truly impatient when Steve lifted a hand to touch the edges.

 

He’d walked passed him, and carefully picked up the scissors from the bathroom taking the scissors from the bathroom sink. He’d held them up questioningly, and Steve stepped closer. Bucky had moved slowly, eyes focused on the edges of Steve’s still damp hair. He’d cut barely a centimeter off, clipping a little on the left and a little on the right. When Steve looked back at the mirror, he realized Bucky had been right. It had been slightly off, but it was better now. “Thanks, Buck,” he’d told his friend.

 

Bucky blinked at him, jaw unhinging and mouth struggling to move. “You’re...welcome.”

 

Steve had been proud of Bucky, endlessly proud of him. He was communicating better. He was writing constantly, but the signing was good, and he was getting more comfortable with casual conversation. He stumbled, more often than not, still better at talking when he had to give a report or answer a question, but he was getting better at talking just to talk. Manners, too, were slowly coming back one phrase at a time.

 

Steve let his hands slide through his hair a few more times, feeling the exact edges and letting it calm some of his frazzled nerves. Bucky was doing good. He was going to be fine. Sam was with him. They were going to make dinner. Steve just needed to get to the store, and that was it.

 

Steve breathed in, he breathed out. It was a nice day. The sun was out, there was a subtle breeze, and there were people wandering about laughing and talking on the street. No one was paying attention to him. They were too busy in their own lives. That was fine. That was okay.

 

The store loomed in the distance, and Steve watched as it became bigger and bigger with each step.  Bucky was fine. He was at home. He was fine. He and Sam were making dinner. Sam’s mantra started to circle through his head. Count backwards from ten. Take a deep breath. Everything was fine. Nothing was wrong. No one was paying any attention. Bucky was at home. He wasn’t dead. He could leave Bucky alone for more than five minutes, and Bucky wasn’t going to die. He was at home, making pasta. Boiling water - that’s essentially what it came down to. They were boiling water. They were going to be fine. Bucky was fine. Bucky was fine.

 

There was a bell that dinged as soon as he opened the door, and his heart leapt to his throat. It’s fine. It’s fine. He could feel his hands starting to shake as he forced himself to go forwards. One foot in front of the other. He was fine. He was fine. He didn’t bother with a cart. He didn’t need one. He just needed the red sauce. Red sauce.

 

Red sauce.

 

Steve lifted his eyes to the signs hanging from the ceiling. There was a pasta aisle two rows over. He moved towards it. _(Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one, breathe in. Repeat.)_ There was nearly twenty different brands of red sauce and over forty different flavors.  Steve stared at them, mouth falling open as he looked at each kind.

 

He’d never known people could be so particular about their pasta. Did it matter what kind? He supposed they should have at least two cans of the same flavor, but did it matter which flavor? Was one better than another? What did Sam say? Did he say anything?

 

Steve’s fingers were shaking harder. He could do this. He could do this. It didn’t matter what the sauce was. It mattered that he did something. He had a purpose: get the sauce. It didn’t matter what kind. It didn’t. Just grab it.

 

He reached for the shelf. _Classico_ Italian Sausage sounded reasonable. He grabbed two jars, and he held them carefully in his hands. Too much pressure and they’d break. Too little and they’d fall. He had to be careful with glass. It was delicate. He could do this.

 

He had the sauce, and he cradled the jars to his chest. He could do this. He could. Bucky was still going to be there when he got back. Nothing bad was going to happen. The world wasn’t going to end. It was a warm, sunny, day out. People experienced warm, sunny, days all the time without anything bad happening. This was going to be okay.

 

Steve pushed forwards. He moved to the express lane and he set the jars down. He watched them slide down the conveyor belt and a bored teenager checked them through without so much as looking up. “Seven seventy,” he was instructed with a lazy drawl. His hands were still shaking when he pulled the ten dollar bill from his pocket. “Wanna bag?” the kid asked.

 

“Please,” he replied. The bill was taken, change was delivered, and the jars were bagged.

 

“Have a nice day.”

 

“You too.” He took the bag, and he started towards the door.

 

But what if he wasn’t fine? Steve feet started to pick up the pace. He wasn’t running, that wasn’t necessary. He was just making sure that he could get home in time for the sauce to be cooked properly. He didn’t want to be late. They were making dinner, the sauce had to be cooked properly. He just - he needed to make sure everything was all right. He had to be certain. It wouldn’t take long. He just- he needed to know.

 

He picked up the pace once he was within eyesight of the house. His hand fumbled with the doorknob and he threw it open. He barely had time to consider that it wasn’t the best course of action, when he saw Bucky jump back into the wall behind him. The plate of garlic bread he’d been holding smashed on the ground - porcelain and bread flying in all directions.

 

He looked at Steve, eyes wide and face pale, and Steve couldn’t breathe. He was fine. He was alive. He was - barefoot and surrounded by sharp edges. “Bucky- don’t-”

 

Bucky stepped forwards. “You’re shaking,” he observed, ignoring the shards he was walking across.

 

“Woah, hey man-” Sam stepped into view from the kitchen, reaching out towards him in an attempt to stop him. It didn’t matter, Bucky was already walking passed the porcelain and was at Steve’s side. He reached out, closed the door behind Steve, and took the bag from his hands.

 

“You’re shaking,” he repeated. “What happened?”

 

Nothing. Nothing had happened. Steve had been fine. Nothing had happened. He’d panicked, and he’d scared Bucky, and now there was- there was blood on the flood from where Bucky had cut his feet. “Fuck, sit down!” Steve hissed, pushing at Bucky’s shoulders.

 

He stumbled, blinking rapidly as he looked between Steve and Sam in utter confusion. He had no idea what was going on. Sam placed a firm hand on Steve’s arm and squeezed. “Stop.” Steve whirled towards him.

 

“He’s bleeding!”

 

“I know. He’s fine, though. He’s absolutely fine. Surface wounds only.”

 

“You don’t know that, you haven’t seen-” The ground dropped out from under him. Wind spiralled around him. A train horn blew in the distance.

 

_(“Bugs on a windshield-”_

_“Better get moving, bugs!”_

_“I had him on the ropes.”_

_“Bucky! Take my hand!”)_

 

No one knew Bucky lost his arm. No one knew, because no one went back for him. They left him there. They left him there, in agonizing pain, to suffer alone. No one knew. He was picked up and tortured. No one saw. No one found out. He was supposed to be safe at Steve’s side. He was supposed to be safe. What else didn’t they know? What else didn’t Bucky tell him? What else didn’t make sense?

 

“-eep brea-”

 

“-ve-”

 

Something grabbed Steve’s palms and forced them forwards. He was clutching something. Something shaking and damp. He opened his eyes. He hadn’t realized he was on the floor, but at some point his knees must have given out. His back was against a wall, and tears were streaming down his face. Bucky was kneeling in front of him, and he was holding Steve’s hands against his face. Steve stared at him. Bucky stared back.

 

“I’m right here,” Bucky told him. He was shaking badly, and there was sweat and tears sliding down his cheeks, dampening Steve’s palms as he held his face still. “I’m right here.”

 

He was alive. He was alive.

 

“I didn’t want- I didn’t want to - You should have- someone should have- we should have found you.” Bucky had always come for him. It didn’t matter what back alley it was, it didn’t matter what horror Steve had conjured. It didn’t matter what it was. Where Steve had gone, Bucky had followed - always taking care of him. No matter what. The one time Bucky had truly needed him, Steve had left him. No one had gone back for him. “I”m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

 

“I know. I know. It’s okay. I know. I’m here. I’m right here. I’m okay. I’m _okay_.” He wasn’t. His eyes were blown wide. He was shaking so violently Steve’s hands were vibrating against him. He had dark circles under his eyes from not sleeping, and he was injured because of Steve. Steve had startled him. Steve had panicked. Bucky came for him again, and was hurt because of it.

 

“You’re not. You’re-”

 

“I’m okay. Tell him I-” Bucky turned towards Sam.

 

“He’s okay, man. He really is. He’s not even cut.” Sam crouched down low so they were all at eye level. He nodded his head encouragingly.

 

“There was blood. I saw it,” Steve argued.

 

“It’s healed. It’s gone. There’s no wound. He’s fine.”

 

“I’m fine. I’m-right now I’m fine,” Bucky edited carefully. Steve choked on the air as he tried to take a deeper breath in. He fought for it. He needed to calm down. He needed to breathe better. He could do this. He could.

 

“That’s it. That’s it. You’re okay. He’s okay. Everyone’s okay.” Bucky nodded, and Steve felt his hands move with Bucky’s head.

 

“I’m fine.”

 

“You’re fine?” Steve repeated dumbly.

 

“I’m fine.”

 

He tugged Bucky forwards, wrapping his arms around him in a fierce embrace. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”

 

“Got nothin’ to be sorry ‘bout, punk. It’s okay. I forgive you. Always.”

 

* * *

 

Sam cooked the rest of dinner while Steve held onto Bucky like a lifeline. Bucky let him get away with it, though he never once relaxed. He was stiff and shaking through most of it, and it made it even harder for Steve to manage to relax because of it. He needed to know it was real. He needed to know that Bucky wasn’t going to die. He needed to know that he couldn’t be taken away.

 

Sam picked up the broken plate and the ruined garlic bread. He set the table. He put everything together, and he even started up his iPod and played some smooth jazz that both Steve and Bucky found relaxing to listen to. (It was reminiscent of the music they grew up with, but it wasn’t a repeat. It was new, and its newness was just as calming as its familiarity).

 

When the food was ready, Bucky shifted back, and he hoisted Steve upright. He pushed him towards the dining room table, and he settled him down. Steve sat and stared at the food in front of him. The red sauce was drizzled proudly on the pasta and he couldn’t believe such a tiny thing had caused such a big fuss.

 

“Before,” he murmured quietly. “Before I knew that Bucky was - was alive. I could do this.” He kept his head down, voice low.

 

“You mean before you knew that the people you spent your life fighting against were alive, that they had infiltrated your workplace and were preparing a global culling, that they had kidnapped and tortured your best friend for seventy years, and that you had something else you wanted to feel guilty over on top of all of your other survivor's guilt?” Sam asked him. Steve actually huffed slightly at that.

 

“Yeah. Before all that.”

 

“I know you’re Catholic, Steve, but maybe it’s time to let some of that guilt go.”

 

_(“Bless me father for I have sinned. It has been two months since my last confession.” Steve paused and licked his lips. “I disobeyed my mother. She told me not to fight anyone anymore, made me swear on the cross I wouldn’t. And I tried. I did try. I know she worries. But there was a boy gettin’ beat on by this fella ‘n his posse, ‘n I couldn’t just let it happen. I know I shouldn’t’ve gotten involved know I should’t’ve, but they were gonna beat him silly."_

_“You know it is wrong to have sworn an oath to God and to have broken it?” Father McGill asked him._

_“Yes, father. But I seen that boy abouts, and he’s a good ‘un.  He helps Mrs. Callahan with her garden, and he fetches Blind Ol’ Tommy his groceries. He’s a Presbyterian, but he’s not all bad. He’s not.”_

_“You made an oath.”_

_“I know. And I’m sorry. I really am.”_

_“You’ve said the act of contrition?”_

_“Yes, father.”_

_“You listen to your mother, and you follow the laws of our holy mother. For penance, you will recite the rosary every day, three times a day. You should always listen to your mother, for her words are wise.”_

_“Yes, Father.”_

_“God, the Father of mercies, through the death and resurrection of his Son has reconciled the world to himself and sent the Holy Spirit among us for the forgiveness of sins; through the ministry of the Church, may God give you pardon and peace, and I absolve you from your sins in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.”_

_“Amen.”_

_“Oh, and Steven?”_

_“Yes, Father?”_

_“While I cannot condone your behavior, nor can I encourage you to go against your mother’s wishes...you should never allow one to be in pain if you are in the position to prevent it. Perhaps you and your mother should speak to each other about the terms of your...fighting ban.”_

_“Even if I’m protecting a Protestant?”_

_“Even then.”_

_“Thank you father.”)_

 

Steve touched his hand to his throat. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d worn the cross. He hadn’t been wearing one when he died. After he’d had his dog tags, he’d worn those instead. The pressed ‘catholic’ on the metal had been all he’d had. He used to run his fingers over the small balls of the chain, quietly counting them down as if it were near never-ending rosary chain.

 

The prayer had been a form of meditation, a way for him to clear his thoughts when everything around him was filled with violence and pain. “Where can I buy a rosary?” he asked quietly, and he felt Bucky start at his side.

 

“You don’t have a rosary?” Bucky honestly sounded perturbed by it, though he wasn’t sure why. They’d been so close to each other lately that Bucky had to have noticed he didn’t have one. He opened his mouth and attempted to come up with a response, but he wasn’t sure what he was meant to say.

 

“No?” he settled for weakly.

 

“But you always have a rosary.” There was so much confusion in his voice that Steve’s heart ached. Bucky’s memories were solidifying if he could remember such a bizarre detail from their childhood. “That priest made you say those prayers so often I memorized them.”

 

“Yeah,” Steve nodded, though he wasn’t sure how accurate that was. Bucky had never prayed with him. In fact, when it came to religion - they rarely spoke about their differences. Steve knew Bucky got picked on for befriending him, but he also knew that between the two of them it was Steve who generally got the short end of the stick.

 

There had been more than a few double dates Bucky had tried to set up which had started out somewhat okay, but had ended in catastrophe when they realized that Steve wasn’t in the same church.

 

_(“What’d you tell her about me?”_

_“Only the good stuff.” So not that he's Irish, or Catholic. Got it. It didn’t matter. He never had to say anything before they looked at him and just_ knew _.)_

 

“Why don’t you have one?” Bucky actually seemed anxious at the notion, as though on top of everything else that had happened lately - that was what he finally considered inexcusable.

 

“I wasn’t wearing one when we left,” he replied. “And we never got one after.”

 

“We should get one. He should get one.” Bucky turned to Sam and gave him an earnest look.

 

“Sure, we can do that. Not a problem. Do you want it tonight?”

 

“Yes,” Bucky replied. “Every night before bed. Every morning before work. Every afternoon before the noontime meal.”

 

“Buck, it’s okay. That was a long time ago.”

 

“When’d you last go to confession? He needs to go to confession.” Bucky was jittery. One of his legs was bouncing uncontrollably under the table and his left hand had bent his fork in half. He hadn’t noticed.

 

“Do you want to go to confession?” Sam asked him curiously. “I’ve never heard you mention your faith.”

 

“Yes, he always goes to confession. After every fight, after every battle. There’s a chaplain who works the army circuit. Henry Clayton. He was good with him. He was-” Bucky winced. “He’s probably retired.” Or dead, Steve didn’t add.

 

“Steve? Do _you_ want to go to confession?” Sam asked pointedly. Bucky sagged a touch in his chair, and Steve winced. Bucky was just trying to help. He didn’t mean to get excited like that. It was okay, really.

 

But he thought about it. He thought about the peace that he felt in church. He thought about how church had always made sense. God punished sinners, and frankly - considering how much sin Steve had accumulated in the past, it made sense that this was how his life was. He hadn’t been to church in years, and Bucky was right - he did used to go with obsessive need.

 

It had felt right. With everything else happening in the war, the familiarity of the church was something that was a comfort. He missed the hymnals. He missed the calming sound of Latin words as the circled about his head.

 

“They don’t do it in Latin anymore,” Steve murmured.

 

“What?” Bucky stared at him.

 

“The mass. It’s not in Latin anymore. It’s in English.”

 

“ _What_?” He turned to Sam as though Sam would have a better answer, and he raised his hands in the air.

 

“Don’t look at me. I’m Agnostic,” he excused.

 

“What’s that?”

 

“Means I don’t know either way, so I don’t practice either way.” Bucky blinked at him.

 

“You can do that?” His brow furrowed.

 

“Yeah, you can.”

 

“But what happens when you die? If you don’t pray proper or go to church?”

 

“Don’t know, suppose I’ll find out.”

 

“But...you’ll go to hell.” Bucky looked to Steve now, for confirmation.

 

“I guess,” Steve shrugged.

 

“I’ll go to hell,” Bucky murmured next. Steve’s blood froze.

 

“No. No, Bucky - no. It’s not. You’re Presbyterian. You believe that as long as you’re aware of your sins, and ask God for his mercy, you’ll be forgiven. You’re not going to hell.” Bucky’s lips moved, sounding out the declaration for himself. I’m not going to hell. “You’re _not_.”

 

“Okay.” He nodded his head and returned his attention to his pasta. “You still should go to confession, Steve.”

 

“Yeah...yeah I probably should.”

 

“You want to?” Sam asked again, still obviously not pleased with the frequent redirections.

 

Steve thought about the solace he found in prayer. He knew it wasn’t for everyone. He never begrudged Sam for his way of life. He never argued with Bucky for his. This...this was something that was his, and the more he thought about it, the more he realized it was one of the many things he’d lost since waking up.

 

His hair had always been shorn short - styled by SHIELD’s staff who insisted it was an ‘in’ look. His clothes were chosen by SHIELD’s staff. His life had been dictated by SHIELD’s staff, telling him what was acceptable and what was not. Faith, he’d discovered, had been added to the list of things that were ‘generally not acceptable.’ People fought and argued with each other, calling those with faith “Jesus Freaks” and those without it “Sinners.”

 

Tony had laughed himself silly when Steve had asked him about a church in Manhattan he could attend, and Steve had quietly only attended mass twice after that before giving it up altogether.

 

Struggling, now, Steve tried to work out how many other things he’d left behind once he’d woken up. How many other things had he lost, but never took note of them because they were ‘meaningless?’

 

Art. That came to mind immediately. He sketched some now, but it wasn’t with the same dedication that he’d had earlier.

 

Reading. It struck Steve like a bolt of lightning. When was the last time he’d actually read anything? He could remember spending days in bed with nothing to do, and the only way to occupy himself was to read a book. He’d read through all of Twain and Emerson. He’d read Thoreau, and Whitman. He remembered being sick with a fever for nearly a week, and every day after school Bucky would come over and carefully read him Leaves of Grass.

 

_(‘“Not I, nor anyone else can travel that road for you._  
_You must travel it by yourself_  
_It is not far. It is within reach._  
_Perhaps you have been on it since you were born, and did not know.  
_ _Perhaps it is everywhere - on water and land,”’ Bucky paused. “What the hell does that mean?” He flicked through the pages in disgust. “Seriously Steve, what on Earth do you get out of this?”_

_Steve smiled weakly. “Hope.”)_

 

Sports. He stopped following them. He stopped watching them. He stopped doing anything related to them.

 

Music. He listened to it, but he didn’t sing along anymore. He didn’t listen to any of his favorites anymore. They hurt too much. He longed for Sinatra, suddenly, he longed for Benny Goodman and Billy Holiday. He longed for Edith Piaf and Aretha Franklin.

 

What happened to him? He stared at Sam, mouth hanging open slightly, and he didn’t know what to say. How had this happened?

 

“I-Yes.” There was so much he needed to reclaim of himself. There was so much he needed to get back. There was so much that he needed to put right. Sam was right. It wasn’t just Bucky. Bucky wasn’t the only one who had been broken down and needed repairs. He wasn’t the only one who was struggling.

 

“Yes?” Sam dragged the word out slowly, arching his brows.

 

“I want to go to confession. I...want to go to church, and draw, and read. I want to get angry about the Dodgers moving to LA-”

 

“The Dodgers did _what_?” Steve laughed. Bucky apparently was more than capable of that already, and he wasn’t even fully functional yet.

 

“They moved to LA.”

 

“When the fuck did that happen?” Sam started laughing. Laughing. He was actually laughing. Bucky’s face was utterly scandalized, and Sam was laughing at them.

 

“1957,” Steve told him.

 

“Out of all the people Hydra sent me to kill, they couldn’t send me to kill whoever made _that_ decision?” Bucky muttered, stabbing his bent fork into his pasta and glaring at it when he noticed how misshapen it had become.

 

Steve almost couldn’t believe he’d made a joke out of it. He gaped at Bucky, and Sam was clearly doing his best not to stare as well. Bucky grit his teeth. “This is why Hydra told me I wasn’t allowed to talk.”

 

Steve felt his shoulders start to hitch up. They did it again. Again. His lips were starting to smile, and he pressed one hand to his mouth in a desperate attempt to keep it in. It wasn’t funny. It wasn’t. He shouldn’t laugh. He really shouldn’t. Hydra was a tragedy, and it wasn’t funny. It wasn’t funny, and he shouldn’t laugh. He - he -

 

Bucky smiled. The bastard was pleased with himself.

 

Steve gave in. He started laughing.

 

_(“‘O ME! O life!...of the questions of these recurring;_  
_Of the endless trains of the faithless-of cities fill’d with the foolish;  
_ _Of myself forever reproaching myself, (for who more foolish than I, and who more faithless?)_

_Of eyes that vainly crave the light-of the objects mean- of the struggle ever renew’d;_  
_Of the poor results of all - of the plodding and sorded crowds I see around me;_  
_Of the empty and useless years of the rest - with the rest me intertwined;  
_ _The question, O me! so sad, recurring- What good amid these, O me, O life?_

_Answer:_

_That you are here-that life exists, and identity;  
_ _That the powerful play goes on, and you will contribute a verse.’” Steve closed the book and smiled at his friend._

_“But what does it mean?” Bucky moaned, covering his face with his hands._

_“It means that even when life is terrible, even when things are wrong and it feels like nothing’s going to get better...the reason we’re here is because we’re a part of the world. We’ve contributed to this world, even if it was just for a short while.” Bucky nodded slowly._

_“Well, suppose that’s a good thing then.”_

_“Yeah...yeah it is.”)_

 

The night may have started terribly, but bad things happened sometimes. Most of the time. All the time. Even so, good things happened too. The good offset the bad, and Steve knew - they could make it through.

 

They could do this.

  
They could.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quotes are from Walt Whitman's "Leaves of Grass."


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve made a list of things he wanted to work on, and he started to work on them. Sam had Bucky work on a list as well. Where Steve’s list was focussed more on reclaiming things that he’d left behind, reaching to the outside world to supplement his loneliness and uncertainty, Bucky worked on himself.
> 
>  
> 
> Bucky wrote down words that he wanted to say, and he read them out loud. I want, I need, I like. He moved them about, forcing himself to say five things that he wanted each day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: discussions of the Holocaust and friendly fire during World War II. Steve has a nightmare/panic attack because of the Fourth of July fireworks. There is also mentions of an animal being grievously injured/presumed dead. 
> 
> Continually, please keep in mind that this chapter, and this story's final two installments ARE darker than previous entries.

Steve made a list of things he wanted to work on, and he started to work on them. Sam had Bucky work on a list as well. Where Steve’s list was focussed more on reclaiming things that he’d left behind, reaching to the outside world to supplement his loneliness and uncertainty, Bucky worked on himself.

Bucky wrote down words that he wanted to say, and he read them out loud. _I want, I need, I like._ He moved them about, forcing himself to say five things that he wanted each day.

“I want to take a shower.”

“I want to eat breakfast.”

“I want to write.”

“I want to to be alone.”

“I want to stop saying ‘I want.’” He usually saved the last one for the end of the night, when he was so tired from attempting to stay positive and uplifted that he fell into melancholy.

Sam always told him he did good, though. It didn’t matter. Each attempt was better than the rest.The words came more easily, the emotions felt more honest. Occasionally Bucky’s sense of humor came through, and he said something sarcastic that nearly always left Steve in stitches.

He had missed his friend’s sense of humor, and each time Bucky looked pleased with himself. He never truly joined in with the laughter, but he smiled wider than he had before, and his overall mood was lighter.  Steve would give anything to have Bucky continue smiling like that. It made his heart burst with delight, and he felt a sense of calming peace start to wash over him.

He started to work on leaving the house more frequently. He made small trips out, moving to a store and back with steadfast determination. His anxiety peaked each time he left, but it was a slower rise, a faster resolution. He came home, found Bucky reading or writing, and he pressed two fingers to Bucky’s wrist, feeling his pulse beat until Steve’s own heart slowly calmed down.

Sam bought him a rosary in the meanwhile, and Steve held the chain revenantly between his palms. He knelt at his bedside in familiar repetition, murmuring words in latin under his breath. Vaguely he was aware of Bucky watching him from time to time, but Bucky never interrupted. He never said a word. When he was finished and finally turned to look at his friend, Bucky almost looked as calm as Steve felt.

“I remember this,” Bucky told him softly. “I remember it…”

The next time he gave Steve his notebook to read, there were a few lines about the ritual. _I never understood why it mattered so much to pray to Mary, but watching you pray always made me feel like I should do more. If there was ever a Catholic meant to go to heaven, it was you Steve. I could time my watch to your prayers, and I always felt more at peace knowing that you had it covered. You prayed enough for the both of us. Sometimes I felt like we needed all the help we could get._

__

_When you were too sick to pray, I used to try to do it for you. My ma would be horrified if she knew, and maybe I offended God somewhere along the way, but I just wanted you to be set. You had your thing, and I didn’t want anything to mess it up. It wasn’t your fault you were sick all the time._

__

“You’re a good friend, Buck,” Steve told him.

“Shaddup,” Bucky replied, lips twisting into a grimace when the words left his mouth. His fists tightened and he walked away, moving to his bedroom and hiding with a quiet “I want to be left alone,” mumbled over his shoulder.

Steve had learned not to push.

* * *

On one of Steve’s more successful outings, he bought painting supplies of his own. Sam’s were nice, but these were things he was familiar with and knew how to use. He brought them home, and settled into the dining room, and he started to work. He sketched small things initially, and then he slowly started to add paint to the canvas.

Bucky wandered about, watching and questioning whenever Steve prompted. Steve began with recreating the world outside. He made a series of canvases that showed every part of their town. He painted the store, and the aisles, and the people. There was a park with a lake, and he showed Bucky the children playing and the families getting together.

Sam seemed the most impressed with his work, and he even told Steve to compare it to what he was first doodling in the beginning. Steve did, and stared at the endless shades of grey, the looming depression that was leaking off the pages, the misery that he hadn’t even been trying to put out.

“You were right about those books,” Steve told Sam quietly.

“Well, I’m three years into my psyche degree now, good to know that it’s getting me somewhere!” Sam replied with a grin.

When Texas was finished being recreated, Steve started to work on other things. He took out his sketchbook and and dedicated himself to drawing Brooklyn. He drew out full memories, narrating as he did. “This was our apartment...This was your old dance hall….This was Connie-”

“Gee Steve, she was prettier than that,” Bucky told him when he squinted at the image of Connie Rice.

“She was not, you liked her for her legs and that was it.”

“Well she did have some nice legs,” Bucky mused. Sam smiled into his coffee, and didn’t draw attention to their camaraderie. He didn’t call it progress. They already knew that it was.

* * *

Getting Bucky out of the house was harder.

Bucky’s paranoia was so deep rooted that nothing short of a command or the promise of danger seemed enough to motivate him out the door. Steve and Sam both agreed that ordering Bucky to leave was tantamount to failure. He had to want to leave. He had to feel comfortable doing it on his own.

Bucky believed everyone was Hydra. He believed that at any moment they could be found. He was stressed and uncertain whenever Steve left the house, and he’d even started to be nervous when Sam left as well. But with each step of progress Steve made, he could see Bucky desperately trying to match it. While he was painting, Steve listened to Bucky move around the house. Sometimes, he could hear Bucky stand at the backdoor, struggling to even step into their enclosed yard. He’d linger on the doorway, posture stiff and uncertain. He’d turn on his heel and move sharply away from it only moments later. He never stayed for long. Someone could see.

Bucky wasn’t afraid to leave the house because something could happen to the things he left behind, he was afraid because he thought someone was going to find him out there. Even though Sam and Steve both encouraged him that they were safe, that they wouldn’t let anything happen, Bucky was resolute. Someone would know. Someone always knew. Someday, Hydra would come back for him.

He spoke about his improvements as though they were temporary. “I should be happy while I have the chance. I should enjoy this while I can. I don’t have much time left, so I should make the best of it.”

“I’m never going to let you go,” Steve swore. “Never.”

“You can’t ensure that,” Bucky replied patiently. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”

“I can keep this. I can.” Bucky never believed him. He didn’t know how to prove it was true.

Instead, he did what he could do to make it better. He brought home things that he thought would make Bucky smile. He bought him an ice cream cone, melting and dripping across his hand. He found interesting rocks that Bucky lined up on his windowsill (the drapes always drawn closed so no light could come in). He sketched more and more scenes of the park.

“I don’t want to be theirs again,” Bucky told him, tracing his hands over the image of ducks swimming peacefully in the lake. He wasn’t flinching as much when he gave opinions, but the eye contact was still a struggle. Save from Steve’s first attempt at leaving the house, when Bucky had taken Steve’s hands and made him hold Bucky’s face towards his, forcing his eyes to stay locked on Steve’s, their eyes never met. Steve would rather never meet Bucky’s eyes again, then have Bucky continue to flinch whenever he looked at him.  

“You won’t be,” Steve promised him. Bucky grimaced and bit his lip.

“If I go out, they could find me.”

“You’re a prisoner in your own home, by not their hand but your own.” Bucky gave him an unimpressed look at the poem.

“Stick to doodling, Steve-o.” Steve smiled for the rest of the night. He doubted Bucky knew why. He didn’t care.

* * *

Bucky’s seizures never got better. They still happened. Once a week: he hit the ground shaking, his muscles would spasm uncontrollably, he’d stare off into space and not realize he’d stopped talking mid sentence. Sam asked him if he wanted to see a doctor about them.

Doctors, Steve relented, were not to be talked about anymore.

“I’d rather walk into the street screaming my name than see one more doctor.” Considering Bucky’s abject paranoia to returning to Hydra, that seemed a little melodramatic. It didn’t matter, though, the intention was clear.

Sam nodded, and they didn’t consult a doctor. Bucky continued to seize, but they learned how to manage them.

Bucky could tell when they were coming. He’d feel them curling around his spine, twisting around his brain, and branching through his body. He’d get off whatever warning he could, and then he’d drop. Sometimes, if he managed it, he’d have enough time to go to his bedroom and lay down. He always told Steve or Sam prior, and there was always someone there to monitor him, just in case.

On a good day, Bucky wrote down everything he could about the seizures. He tried to put together a timeline for them, explaining when he’d had them and how they were handled. The staring ones, (Absence seizures), were the first few that Bucky put down. Those, he admitted, he didn’t really think about as much until the war, and even then he hadn’t put a name to them until Sam gave him a title.

When Steve thought about it, he’d seen those prior to the war too. There were moments, sometimes even in class, where Bucky had been in the middle of something and had just dropped off. He’d pause, stare blankly for a moment, and then pick up right where he left off without seeming to realize that he’d stopped in the first place. Steve had just thought his friend day dreamed, and left it at that.

“I did too. I never remembered doing it, and it wasn’t like they lasted for that long,” Bucky told him on a very good day. Full sentences and elongated conversations were rare enough as it was, discussing anything pertaining to Bucky’s mental or physical health was a sublime oddity.

He’d only had three grand mal seizures before Hydra. Once when he was home alone, once when his youngest sister was so sick with pneumonia no one even noticed Bucky had disappeared for nearly two hours (only about five minutes for the actual event, but the rest of the time was spent in a daze) on his own, and once when he was in Zola’s lab. Zola always knew, and it rubbed Steve the wrong way entirely. Zola never should have known anything about Bucky, let alone something Bucky had never felt comfortable sharing to the walking-infirmary that was his best friend.

Petite-mal seizures were the most frequent. One of his legs would start shaking, or a hand. He couldn’t really get them to stop by force, but they’d do it eventually. Steve had even seen that happen. He’d chalked it up to nerves or excitement, and hadn’t taken into consideration that Bucky had been grinding his teeth in apprehension the whole while.

“Why didn’t you ever tell me?” Steve asked.

Bucky opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again, then scowled in frustration. He pulled out his notebook and wrote his response. _Because Jimmy Harris had the shakes too and they put him in that nut house for them._

“I wouldn’t have done that,” Steve refuted almost desperately. Bucky gave him an annoyed expression, it made him stop and consider all the other possibilities there were. When he realized the truth, it hit him in the gut. “It wasn’t me you were worried about,” he murmured quietly. Bucky's expression shifted. Accepting. Understanding. "It was you.”

_It was a lot of things. It was those damn reports saying that you had to be in perfect health or you were the lower than the low. It was the kids at school with their judgemental ways. It was my own embarrassment. It was...I just didn’t want to be different._

It hurt. It was always going to hurt. But Steve remembered exactly how it hurt when he stood next to Bucky in that bar, and Peggy only had eyes for him.

_(“This is some kind of terrible nightmare, I’m turning into you!”_

__

_“Awe, it’s not so bad. Maybe she’s got a friend?”)_

Early 1900s eugenics. Even someone as open minded as Bucky, who had never thought ill of Steve once in all their time as friends, didn’t want to face the stigma of being sick or infirm. “It’s okay, Buck. I understand.”

Bucky’s lips twisted. “The serum fixed you…” he struggled to say. “Why didn’t it fix me?”

“That, I, uh, might have an answer for,” Sam suggested, holding his hand up like a kid in class. “The seizure that you had in Zola’s lab, was that before or after the injections?”

“Before.”

“That, almost certainly was a result of everything going wrong physically at the moment. You were sick, dehydrated, starving, and under a huge amount of mental strain. It’s not surprising that you had a seizure then.”

“What about the pauses after?”

“I wasn’t there, no medical person was, but I don’t think those were seizures. If anything, those were probably PTSD. No absence seizure lasts for hours at a time. And you said afterwards you were mostly aware of what was going on?”

“Vaguely, I knew time had passed. I knew I’d checked out.”

“Awareness isn’t really something that comes with absence seizures. My best guess, you were staring because you were trying to sort out what was happening. You’d get fixated on something, whatever it was, and you were trying to figure it out. You were trying to make sense of it all, and it wasn’t coming together. I don’t think those were physical.”

_“But I seize now.”_ Bucky had to sign those words. His mouth wouldn’t cooperate properly, and he was too invested in trying to communicate to start writing again.

“When did those start? After the chair?” Bucky frowned. He tilted his head slightly, considering. Steve considered too. Bucky never spoke about shaking in the dark.

The dark room he’d been put into, blind and alone, left in solitary confinement for over a year, only to be saved by Arnim Zola when he was finally desperate for someone to talk to, had never had an episode. When he fought Zola during the fifteen years before he finally give in - he never mentioned shaking.

It was only after the chair. The chair made things worse. They wiped his mind, they made him forget, and the ice made it better. Bucky mouthed the words: _Son of a bitch._ He’d been cured. Zola had cured him. He’d also brought the seizing right back when he tried to burn out the soul that inhabited the body of James Buchanan Barnes.

“He was angry,” Bucky managed. He flinched at the words and he crumpled forwards, squeezing a hand to his head as he struggled to breathe. “He was angry after. He didn’t think-that’s why. God, I remember it hurting. He wouldn’t stop. He kept-the chair- it.” Bucky’s mouth snapped closed and his knees gave out. No one needed him to explain. They understood.

Bucky finally gave in and asked them to take away his memories. He finally gave up, knowing what they would do to him once he did. He moved to that chair, he let them tie him down, and when they were done electrocuting his mind to the point that he had no idea who or what he was - he’d had a seizure and was punished for it.

Steve wondered how many times Zola tried to doctor the results, make it so the seizures were gone for good. He wondered how many injections they gave Bucky, how many attempts they made before they finally decided it was more efficient to send him out on three day runs and then freeze him before he could _malfunction_ in the field.

He reached out, and he held Bucky to his chest, rubbing his back as Bucky tried to pull through the memory that was haunting him. He’d been tortured because of something he’d had no control over, and worse - he’d been tortured at a time he couldn’t possibly have understood the reason why. He’d been wiped clean, and his first memory in the hands of his masters had been one of agonizing pain.

Bucky’s terror at returning had always made sense to Steve, but with each new detail that came to light, Steve began to doubt they’d ever be able to break him of it. Some things ran too deep, and this was one of them.

* * *

As Bucky worked to overcome the pain of his past, Steve faced more of his own. Fourth of July fireworks burst in the sky, and Steve woke up screaming, fighting against an enemy that wasn’t there as Bucky stood frozen by a wall and Sam spoke his name. “Steve, you awake?” Sam asked him. He stared at his friend, breathing heavily.

He’d been dreaming of a Hydra raid. Bombs burst all around them, men were dying but the dozen, they almost hadn’t made it out in time. So many people had died.

There were more good days than bad lately. But that didn’t mean the bad didn’t linger behind, muddying the waters and making it clear that they could never wash its stain from their lives.

Steve spent the night sketching pictures of the war while Bucky wrote memories in his notebook. Neither slept, and Sam made them hot cocoa and listened when Steve was ready to talk.

“Do you know what hurt the most?” Steve asked, not looking up. “Sometimes you couldn’t tell who you were shooting at. They’d just appear, and you’d be fighting them. It’d be dark, and everyone was screaming. People would shoot their guns, slash with their knives, claw with their hands, and when the light passed over - sometimes you’d find that you’d killed an American, an ally, a friend.”

“You ever kill someone you know?” Sam asked.

Steve sketched the face of a young man, in the wrong place, at the wrong time. The media never talked about him.

Bucky made a note in his book.

_It wasn’t your fault. You didn’t know._

Steve had no idea what Bucky was referring to. Sometime Steve wondered if he was the biggest hypocrite south of the Mason Dixie line. Knowing the truth didn’t change how it happened. He couldn’t change the past. He should have known. There was nothing he could do about that. He'd blame himself until the day he died, and argue to Bucky that Bucky was free from sin just as hard.

Guilt was complicated that way. _("Catholics," Bucky huffed. Steve rolled his eyes.)_

__

In the morning, he quietly told them he was going to church, and he did. He went to mass. He sat in the back pew, and when the service was over, he took confession.

_(“O my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended you, and I detest all my sins, because of Your just punishments, but most of all because they offend You, my God, who are all-good and deserving of all my love. I firmly resolve, with the help of Your grace, to sin no more and to avoid the near occasion of sin.”)_

“Feel better?” Bucky asked him quietly when he came home. He looked up, and with a slight smile, told Bucky that he’d been assigned to do the rosary. Bucky actually rolled his eyes in response. “Catholics,” he muttered as he shook his head and returned to the book he was reading.

(The answer was ‘yes.’ He did feel better. He’d confessed to God the guilt he harbored, the agony he’d felt upon the pain of Bucky’s death and the horror of Bucky’s return. He’d confessed how he’d strayed from his path, and how he hadn’t known how to proceed. He’d confessed to every horrible dark thing that had wormed its way inside his heart. He’d confessed, and the priest had offered no judgement save God’s love. He was forgiven, and if _God_ could forgive him, then _Steve_ could forgive himself.)

* * *

Bucky took one step outside. He stood, barefooted, on the grass of their backyard. He breathed in. He breathed out. He spent ten minutes in the fresh air of the outside world.

Steve learned to celebrate the small stuff. Every moment mattered, even if it was just one step out the door.

* * *

Sam asked them about the war. For some reason, SHIELD had always been more focussed on the pain of waking up than the war itself. Steve was surprised that Sam considered it to be so necessary to talk about, but the more Sam gently eased into it, the more Steve realized how much of it still twisted his stomach into knots.  “Was it just Hydra?” Sam asked curiously. A friend asking instead of a doctor. Steve needed that friend. He was so grateful for that friend’s presence. “The history books are never clear.”

“It wasn’t just Hydra,” Steve replied. “Hydra represented a problem. They were another enemy combatant that we fought, and needed to take down. They were a priority, yes. But to say that in the midst of fighting Hydra we abandoned the rest of the war effort - that’s wrong. We spent years fighting that war, before and after...Schmitt’s death. We did participate in beach landings, and we did fight against Naziism as a whole.”

“Must have been rough.” Sam never cast judgment. He never pressed too much. It made it so much easier to talk about.

“We came across a camp once,” Bucky murmured. Steve felt his heart snap to his throat. He looked at his friend, eyes wide and disbelieving. Bucky wasn’t looking at him. He was staring at his cup of cocoa. “It was empty, abandoned. A contingent had already cleared it out, and there were still some allies securing it, but the Germans were gone. The prisoners were gone. Regardless, there were...it was…” Bucky took a breath. “You could tell. You could just tell. Schmitt was insane, but those men? Those men following orders? What excuse did they have? _Arbeit macht frei….Desinfizierte Wasche..._ ” He slowly looked up at met Steve’s eyes.

“No excuse,” Steve told him firmly. “None.” Bucky nodded.

_(There was a faucet attached to the wall in one of the first rooms they entered. Above it were words in German._ Kein Trinkwasser. Nicht trinken. _“This is where they brought them,” Gabe murmured, one hand raising to his mouth. “Off the trains- off the - this is the first time they’d have any water at all.”_ Kein Trinkwasser. Nicht trinken. _Steve never believed in Hell on Earth until that day. That day, there was nothing else to call it.)_

“We saw the worst of humanity for three years,” Steve murmured. “And we thought we beat it.”

“Sometimes,” Sam started, voice regretful, “there are some fights you just can’t win.”

“Yeah,” Steve agreed. “I know.” He’d been losing fights for ninety years. He knew full well how hard it was to actually win the ones that mattered. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Evil can never be completely wiped out. But we can try to make it better... we can do the best we can.” Sam grinned.

“Amen, brother. Amen.”

* * *

Nearly two years after Steve found Bucky in that tube, they finally went for a walk outside. Bucky was tense, nervous, and vastly uncomfortable. He wore a light jacket and kept his hands in his pockets the whole while, but he was walking. Sam covered their backs, providing the much needed support that Bucky had quietly asked for.

They left in the early morning, walking before the sun got too high to make the heat unbearable. Few people were around in the pre-dawn hours, and Bucky could avoid detection far more easily then. They made a full circle around the park, before melting away out of public view, and returning home without anyone seeing them at all. Bucky sat on the couch, wrapped in blankets, and forced himself to breathe as Steve smiled at him.

Better, Steve knew. They were getting so much better.

They made it a ritual. Different hours on different days, no less than four times a week, they would go to the park and they’d walk. They’d sit, sometimes, by the lake. They’d feed some ducks. They’d go back home. Sam would talk to them occasionally, but generally they would work on relaxing. They were working on getting better.

Bucky’s nerves were still telling him to run, to hide, to get out of the line of sight, but they were doing it. They were conquering the mountain. They were making things right.

After three months of practice, Bucky even managed to go to the store and purchase some goods on his own.

“I don’t understand,” Steve admitted softly. “When we were first on the run, you got all those supplies, you even got us IDs and money when we needed to find a new place to go.”

“There a question in there, Rogers?” Bucky asked him quietly. The words were right, the tone was soft. Somber. Tired.

“Why is this…”

“So hard?” Bucky finished. Steve nodded, he hadn’t known what to say. “Because it’s not necessary. It’s...an indulgence. It’s a whim. Before: we needed food, water, shelter. We needed transportation. We...needed. This? This is a walk in the park for no purpose other than to go outside. It’s...a liability.”

“You’re doing great, you know.”

“Yeah...yeah...I know.”

Bucky was softer these days. He was softer and quieter. He was himself. His memories, for the most part, were secure. He leaned on Steve naturally, he cooked meals from their childhood, he recalled anecdotes even Steve had discounted. He was Bucky Barnes again despite being different.

He didn’t like being around people. He had nightmares often, and he didn’t always want to talk about them. He was terrible at eye-contact, and he didn’t want to fight that inclination. He wrote in his book more than he actually spoke out loud, and he was now fluent in ASL whenever he went nonverbal. (Steve was proud to say that he and Sam were too.)

He didn’t laugh boisterously, and instead smiled to himself when he found something amusing. He didn’t dance at each new song that came on the radio, but instead nodded his head to the beat and tapped his fingers at his thigh.

He loved the birds.

During their walks to the park, they always stopped to feed the birds in the pond. They fed them bread crumbs and watched as they flapped about and scurried to get to the offerings. There was one brown duck in particular that Bucky took a liking to. It was always chased by the other birds, pecked raw whenever he approached. He stared wistfully at the bread and never got close enough to the pile to eat his fill. Bucky always made sure to toss some directly to his beak.

More than once, the duck caught it, quaking happily as he chomped it down. Sometimes the little brown duck would follow them about as they went on their walk, waddling after them even if they didn’t have any bread left. “Gonna name him?” Steve asked.

“Pippin,” Bucky decided on. Steve had brought the _Lord of the Rings_ series home after one of his library runs. After realizing that he had missed reading, Steve made it a point to go to the library once a week at least. He liked finding new stories he’d missed out on while he was in the ice. He’d finished the _Fellowship of the Ring_ and given it to Bucky not too long ago. Bucky, in turn, read through each book of the series faster than Steve could manage, devouring them in less than two days. Steve still hadn’t finished _The Return of the King_ , and it was the shortest of the lot. He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t impressed by Bucky’s enthusiasm.

It took another month before Bucky felt comfortable enough to sit at the lake with Pippin and the other ducks, actually spending more than five minutes at a time there. Steve took his sketchbook and pencils and he drew templates for larger paintings. He drew Bucky, sitting with his back facing Steve, looking out over the water with his strange little friend at his side. Pippin waddled to Bucky always, sitting next to him and sometimes even letting Bucky stroke his dark feathers.

Five days later, Pippin apparently had moved in. Steve had no idea how Bucky managed to sneak the duck back without him noticing it, but Steve had just managed to set his things down when he noticed the little duck waddling to the kitchen and Bucky smiling after it. “Where was he?” Steve asked. He’d been at Bucky’s side the whole time, and he had not once noticed the duck.

“I’m the most lethal assassin in the world, Steve,” Bucky told him seriously. “I can be subtle.” Steve stared at his friend. The Hydra jokes always caught him off guard, and he never knew how to respond. Bucky’s lips twisted and his brows furrowed, uncertainty washing over him the longer Steve delayed.

“You’re a jerk,” Steve told him, hurrying to let Bucky know that it was fine.

“Punk,” Bucky replied with a shrug. There was a tap-tap-tap as Pippin discovered the kitchen cabinets, and Bucky followed his duck without another word.

Sam, when he came home from work, didn’t seem even remotely surprised. He peered down at Bucky who was sitting on the kitchen floor with Pippin in his lap, asked him what kind of food Pippin liked, and mentioned something about how wild ducks were probably illegal to house train before looking up duck care on his burner phone. This was their life now, Steve realized. Bucky adopted stray ducks, and their roommate’s response was to go to the pet store and make it official.

As far as their new lives went: Steve was quite content with this.

Barely two weeks later, Bucky had every book on ducks in the world and they were looking for a private home with a pond Pippin could live in. Pippin pooped everywhere, ate through food fast enough to put a super soldier to shame, and loved to nibble on Bucky’s hair. He bit everyone’s ankles when they walked passed, and he had quite a loud honker, but he looked at Bucky like he was the King of the Ducks, and Bucky loved him.

Pippin was also a girl. The duck books said so, and the rogue eggs were also pretty telling as well.

* * *

 

Sam stayed behind in their townhouse while Steve and Bucky moved out. They were working on growing more independent, and this way if there was ever an issue, they could retreat to a place they found safe. So far, the plan worked well. Steve and Bucky visited Sam, and Sam visited them. They grew comfortable with the new lodging, and it worked out well for all of them.

 

Steve found that he could sell his paintings online for commission, and it was just enough to afford their living expenses on their own. They found a secluded home, close to town but with no neighbors on either side, and Pippin was ecstatic with it. Bucky found it far easier to walk around outside on his own, roaming the property and being independent, now that they weren’t directly in town with neighbors immediately on each side. Steve wasn’t surprised when Bucky somehow managed to acquire more ducks, nor was he surprised when Bucky insisted they were all wild and they’d just shown up.

Pippin was quickly joined by Merry and Samwise, and neither Merry nor Samwise bullied her one bit. Bucky set to work constructing a pen for them, just in case, and the ducks quacked and chatted as they waddled about the yard.

Bucky tended to the little pond in their yard, making sure that it was always just right for his avian fellows. He nodded in response to their chattering noises, and Steve knew he’d give Bucky every duck in the world if it made him smile like this every day.

_(“What makes you happy?” Sam asked the second time they met._

__

_“I don’t know.”)_

 

Sometimes Steve was bored, and he thought about going outside, starting a fight, letting his strength explode from him. Then he let it go. It was all right. He didn't need that. He didn't want that. He wanted to make sure Bucky was all right, and if that meant living in an idyllic home in Texas of all places, then so be it. 

* * *

Steve’s paintings were becoming popular. He and Bucky walked to the library every day, Pippin occasionally waddling after them, and Steve went through forums and websites looking for people interested in his art. He took commissions, he organized sales, and he shipped his canvases via UPS and FedEx.

He painted mountains, quaint villages, young love, and more. He found inspiration striking him at the oddest of times, and it didn’t seem to matter because he just enjoyed the feeling of it. His favorite painting, one of Bucky sitting at the lake with his little brown duck at his side, hung over their mantle. He never sold that one, or any painting with Sam or Bucky in it. 

_(“Why you droppin’ out?” Bucky was furious._

__

_“Ain’t no point in stayin’.”_

__

_“That’s bull shit, Steve and you know it!”_

__

_“Ain’t never going to be no famous artist. Better cut my losses and get a real job.”_

__

_“You never quit nothing a day in your life, and you ain’t quittin’ this. Get back to school or so help me Rogers I’ll have my ma come down here and give you the ‘I’m disappointed speech’ herself!”)_

The world spun on its own without them in it, and Steve was okay with that. Bucky began working on a garden for his ducks to devour, and he had books upon books of duck trivia stacked along the house’s walls. Steve shook his head fondly when he looked at it all, and special ordered more from the library.

“You wanted to be a vet when you were a kid,” Steve murmured when he watched Bucky trail his fingers up Pippin’s neck.

“I remember,” Bucky replied quietly. He’d saved up his quarters for months to buy books on animal welfare and medicine. Even when he worked at the docks, or running small jobs around town, he’d always had one eye on the store window at the local clinic, waiting for the day when the words ‘help wanted’ would appear.

Bucky worked his way through college up until the moment the war came, and then his dreams, like so many other things, came to an end. _(“Suppose there might be horses overseas,” Bucky murmured, drinking the last sip of his bourbon. “Could always work on them.”_

__

_“You’ll get it, Buck,” Steve promised. “You will.”_

__

_“Shoulda been a real doctor. ‘S what everyone said.”_

__

_“You don’t wanna be a real doctor.”_

__

_“Don’t much matter now, does it? Ain’t gonna be any kinda doctor, huh Steve?”)_

Steve watched as Bucky worked so naturally with his ducks. He’d never thought Bucky could be so content surrounded by fowl, but then again the situation had never really come up in the past. Steve knew he could live in a world with a hundred ducks if it meant Bucky kept doing better. And he was doing better. Every single day. He was always doing better.

Really, it had only been a matter of time before everything fell apart.

* * *

Sam’s visits had become less frequent as he had slowly started to ease away from their day to day lives. The end goal, he reminded them both, was for them to feel comfortable being who they were, whoever they were. Bucky had become far more comfortable with talking to Sam, even occasionally making a dry joke that had Sam sputtering in surprise more often than not. They did talk, too. Bucky talked about the war when he remembered it. He talked about Hydra. He talked about being their Asset. He talked about the moments when the significance of his actions came back to haunt him.

_(“Why does it hurt now? Why not then? Why didn’t I stop it then?” Bucky was crying, shouting. He’d already knocked a glass to the floor, and there were broken shards scattered across the tiles._

__

_“Did you know who he was?” Sam asked patiently._

__

_“Does it matter?!”_

__

_“Did it matter who it was during the war?” Bucky recoiled. Tears came down his face in streams, falling from both corners of his eyes. Snot ran unimpeded across his lips. He sniffed loudly, snorting air in an attempt to pull it back. He didn’t rub his hand across it, though, he just let it fall._

__

_“They’re going to come back,” he gasped out. “They’re going to come back and I won’t know who you are. I won’t- they’ll make me - they’ll-I-”_

__

_Sam stepped forwards. “I need you to breathe, man. Just breathe. Okay? Can you do that?” Bucky shook his head, and stumbled back into the wall. He sank to the floor and drew his knees to his chest._

__

_“I don’t want to remember this. I don’t want to remember.” Steve was reminded sharply of words scratched on wood. “I don’t want to remember. Make it stop. Please. Please just make it stop. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”_

__

_Sam took a blanket and wrapped it around Bucky’s body. He tucked it close, and Steve watched as he placed a hand on Bucky’s shoulder. “Just breathe, man. One breath in, count to ten, let it out. Do it again. You got this. You got this.”_

__

_“No, no,” Bucky cried._

__

_“Yes,” Sam insisted. He said it for the rest of the night. “You got this. You do. Yes.”)_

Bucky lit up whenever Sam came around. He always greeted him at the door, starting a halting conversation on how Sam was before fumbling through rudimentary greeting questions. Bucky still struggled with beginning a conversation. He still struggled with being the one to initiate contact. His own opinions he still tended to keep to himself, and even his jokes were always said with a quiet sense of discomfort that had him peering at the object of his amusement like he was waiting for a reprimand.

If he was feeling particularly brave, he’d ask if Sam wanted to see the ducks, and Sam always said yes. Steve couldn’t help the sense of pride that coursed through him whenever he saw Bucky leading Sam to the pond.  

“It’s like we were before the war,” Steve confided once. “There’s more sharp edges, more things to be careful with, but...it’s manageable.”

“It should be, man,” Sam told him. “It should be. He’s never going to be the same person as he was before the war, but he’s getting closer to being himself. You think he’s happy?” Steve let his eyes trail towards the window leading to the view of the duck pond. Bucky had started to teach Pippin how to hop onto his hand when he said the word ‘up’ and the duck quacked loudly and flapped her wings as she jumped and fluttered into position.

“Yeah,” Steve grinned. “Yeah I think so.”

Bucky avoided talking to anyone if he had the option. He was far more introverted than he’d ever been before the war, and Steve doubted that he’d ever fully be able to let go of the paranoia that insisted that one day he’d be taken back to Hydra, but he had adjusted well enough to find some form of peace here. His teasing had become more frequent, and his smiles more broad as he recalled memories with greater frequency.

He remembered his family. He remembered taking Becca shopping for dancing shoes and teaching her how to lindy-hop in their old apartment. He remembered pushing all the furniture to the side and doing up the bed so that they could tap around the apartment’s floor, laughing as the record player skipped each time they stepped too hard.

He moved like a soldier still, silent and deadly, but so did Sam. So did Steve. They probably would move like that until the day they died. Some things were eternal.

 

_("Steve...? Do you want to...spar?"_

 

_"What?"_

 

_"Never mind."_

 

_"No, no tell me, what is it?"_

 

_"I just...it feels like a race car under my skin. I want to move. But...I don't know...I...Forget it."_

 

_"Bucky, if that's what you need..."_

 

_"Forget it."_

 

_They didn't talk about it again.)_

 

Steve had a couple of beers in the fridge, and he took them out with him as they went to the duck pond. Pippin immediately charged towards them, quaking and hopping up in the air in little jumps. Bucky laughed - smiling brightly as he looked at them.

“Can’t believe that thing is wild,” Sam muttered as he shook his head.

“Peas,” Bucky said. “She wants her peas!” Steve reached into his pocket and pulled out a little bag of peas that he’d started to become accustomed to carrying around with him. Sam didn’t say a word, but his amused grin spoke volumes. Steve held open his hand and let Pippin snap up her treat, before the duck clearly became disinterested in performing and waddled over to the pond for a swim with Merry and Samwise.

Sam settled into one of the lawn chairs by the pond and shook his head. “You got a gift, that’s for sure.” Bucky’s smile was infectious, and he thanked Sam kindly. Steve handed him one of the beers he’d brought over and they clinked the glasses together. “I’m thinkin’ of heading back to DC for a bit, check up on the VA up there - visit some family. You think you’ll be cool for a while?” Sam asked them.

Steve watched Bucky’s reaction from the corner of his eye. A year ago, even months ago, any slight deviation from ‘normal’ would cause Bucky to stiffen and start rotating down an internal spiral of despair until it became clear that nothing bad was going to happen. Hydra wasn’t coming. He wasn’t leaving. He was safe. So were they.

Bucky’s mouth tightened still, but he nodded his head. “Sorry we kept you so long,” he murmured.

“Not every day I can spend a year with Captain America and Sergeant Barnes, trust me, we’re good. ‘Sides, I really like these ducks. Who knew Texas had such nice ducks?” Sam pointed to the fat black-bellied whistling duck that was _not_ named after him.

_(“His name is Sam,” Bucky said flatly._

__

_“You named a duck after me,” Sam confirmed, just to be clear._

__

_“No. I named him after Samwise Gamgee.” The inflection in his voice didn’t change a bit._

__

_“Of course you did.” Sam was not impressed._

__

_“He did,” Steve placated. “Bucky doesn’t know how to joke yet.” Bucky nodded solemnly._

__

_“It is not a part of the Winter Soldier’s programming to ‘joke.’”_

__

_“You two think you’re real funny, but you know? You’re really not.” In the pond, Samwise quacked loudly and dove for a fish.)_

“What can I say, Sam? We came for the racism and stayed for the ducks.” Sam snorted and rolled his eyes.

“Yeah, not gonna miss that anytime soon.” Bucky’s expression dipped sadly and he looked down at Pippin.

“I’m sorry we put you in this position,” Steve told Sam sincerely. He knew that on top of everything else, Sam had to deal with the outside world as well. He smiled slightly at him.

“You know, I think I made two good friends, worked on my degree for a while, and there've been some real good people over at the VA. Overall, it's been positive.”

“Still...are you okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah I am. Don’t worry. Not my first place of choice, but it hasn’t been that bad. It’s fine.”

“Fine isn’t a stopping point,” Bucky told him. The words sounded familiar, and Steve was certain he saw those in one of Sam’s psyche books. “It’s a starting point.”

“Look at you,” Sam teased, reaching over and tousling Bucky’s hair slightly. He stiffened at the contact, but didn’t pull away.  “You know those books better than me now, quoting them left and right.”

“I read them often enough,” Bucky muttered. “You should...you could go if it makes you happy.”

“I’m happy, Bucky. I promise. I’ll let you know if that changes.” Bucky nodded at him, and then let his attention be taken in by Pippin. She was diving for food in the pond and his lips curled upwards as he watched her.

Steve lay back against the grass, breathing in the warm air, feeling the wind at it slid around him. This was good. He could do this forever, he thought dreamily. He could live here, paint to pay for their mortgage, and maybe branch out into one of the other art disciplines. He liked the idea of sculpting, that could be fun. Weaving too- he’d like to learn how to weave. He’d already started knitting again. Even now he had a drawer full of socks. And maybe Bucky and him _would_ practice sparring. Maybe they could get to a point where that kind of physical exertion felt good and wasn't a painful memory of the past. They could do this, Steve knew. They really could.

A twig snapped in the woods, and Steve sat upright in an instant. Bucky fell silent and still at his side. Even Sam was quiet. Steve’s eyes peered into the darkness of the trees. The ducks’ happy quacking and honking had continued unperturbed, but Steve could feel the tension bleeding from Bucky’s form. His breath had caught in his throat the moment the twig snapped, and his body was ramrod straight.

“It’s probably nothing,” Steve told him, still scanning the immediate area.

“Someone’s there,” Bucky told him, voice so low and lips moving so slightly that Steve almost missed it. Pippin had caught a fish at some point and proudly was eating it as she swam back to shore. She hopped on the edge of the water, shaking off and then waddling towards them proudly. _(Look what I can do!)_

Bucky was right. Someone was there. Several someones.

They were moving as a group, appearing from the trees, guns raised. Steve’s shield was still in his portfolio bag in his bedroom closet. Sam and Bucky weren't armed either. They’d just been relaxing outside. This was their home. Why were they being attacked at their home?

Bucky’s eyes were wide. He was frozen in place. Steve couldn’t even tell if he was breathing. He shifted forwards so he was crouching. “Buck,” he murmured softly. His friend didn’t even react. He stayed still, staring at the approaching men and women. “Buck,” Steve repeated. Nothing. “Bucky get inside.” No response. He cursed and stood up. He made a move to try to drag Bucky to his feet, but was halted at the sound of a voice he never thought he’d hear again.

“Please don’t.” Steve felt his heart leap to his throat. Coulson. Coulson. He stared at the man, eyes wide and mouth floundering. He exited the treeline, gun aimed at them as he led the wall of agents (they had to be agents. Agents of what?) towards them.

“You-you’re dead,” Steve told him. Bucky still wasn’t moving. Sam had risen to his feet.

“I’m sorry you had to find out like this,” Coulson told him. “We’re here to take you in, Captain.”

“Take me-what?”

“We understand that you’re confused,” Coulson continued.

“I’m not confused. You’re the one who’s confused.” Anger pooled hot and heavy within Steve’s body. Bucky still wasn’t moving. His constant stream of _“They’ll come. They’re coming. They’re going to take me away”_ echoed through Steve’s mind. He promised. He promised. He wasn’t going  to break that promise. He wasn’t. “Put your guns down.”

“We can’t do that Captain, not until the area’s secure.” Coulson didn’t have to motion towards Bucky, his intentions were obvious.

“The area _is_ secure, this is my house. Put your guns down.” The command only seemed to make Coulson’s agents more determined than ever.

“Hey, hey, that’s not necessary, okay?” Sam said, raising his hands placatingly. “Let’s just have everybody calm down for a moment.”

“Mr. Wilson if you could get on your knees and put your hands behind your head, it would make things go a lot easier.” Coulson’s eyes barely strayed from Steve’s face, and that didn’t matter. He knew who Sam was. He almost certainly knew who Bucky was at this point. He definitely knew who Steve was. They were still coming.

“Are you Hydra?” Steve asked Coulson bluntly. He wouldn’t have thought the man capable of it, but frankly - they’d known each other for less than forty-eight hours. Anything was possible, even friends becoming enemies.

“No Captain, we’re not.”

Bucky tipped forwards. He brought his knees in underneath him, and he kept his arms at his side. His head was tipped down, defeated and placating. His body was slumped in open supplication. He was going to let this happen. He wasn’t going to fight this. He wasn’t going to try to get away.

Steve clenched his fists and stepped forwards. All the guns trained on him. Bucky didn’t so much as tilt his head. His eyes were downcast, his body was rigid. Steve could hear him breathing now, short and shallow breaths that would tip him into panic if this kept on. “You’re not touching him.”

“I’m sorry, Captain. We understand this is difficult for you, but we need to take you in,” Coulson did sound apologetic. It amounted to nothing. Steve took another step forwards, blocking them from a direct shot on Bucky. They’d have to hit him first. They’d have to. He wasn’t going to let them take Bucky without a fight.

“We know how to break the programming now - we can help you!” One of Coulson’s agents hastened to say. She was young, so very young. Steve didn’t care.

“We already broke the programming. We don’t need help. Put the guns down. You’re not taking him anywhere.” Pippin was waddling closer. She moved to Bucky’s side, and hopped a few times expectantly. No one gave her any peas. Bucky wasn’t moving. He was little more than a living statue whose sole purpose was to show the world that he was beneath them - inanimate and soulless.  A ghost in the shell - waiting for commands to move.

Coulson’s men were drawing closer. They stopped out of arm’s length, they stopped out of leaping length. It would take at least three good strides to reach them, and they were all aiming right at Steve. “Step aside, Captain,” Coulson implored.

“I promised I wouldn’t let him be taken away. I’m not going to break that promise.”

“He’s hurt a lot of people, Captain-”

“My name is Steve Rogers,” Steve hissed. “I gave up being Captain America. I’m retired, indefinitely. I have a life - Coulson. A life that is my own and has nothing to do with you. Bucky is my friend and you’re not going to take him away. Put the guns down.”

“This isn’t what you wanted, Steve. You must know that,” Coulson told him gently. This isn’t the life you wanted.”

“You don’t know _anything_ about me,” Steve snapped. Coulson’s lips thinned.

“I’m sorry, Captain,” his finger squeezed on the trigger. Steve moved. He ran forwards, ignoring the sting as something sharp hit his shoulder. He could hear startled yelps as Coulson’s agents fanned out, firing again and again. Vaguely he was aware of Sam moving and grabbing at Bucky, trying to get him to safety.

Steve couldn’t think about that. He needed to contain this first. He focused on Coulson, knowing he needed to disarm him before getting to the others. The man couldn’t lead them if he was unconscious. He could feel electricity coursing through his body at each stinging shot. Blue lights danced across his vision as he struck Coulson’s gun from his hands and twisted the man’s arm behind his back. Another shot hit him in the flank. He turned and threw Coulson at two of his agents who’d just happened to line up properly.

A fist hit him in the jaw as he turned to see who was next. Two more shots slammed into his back. He felt his knee wobble out beneath him, and he hissed as he struck the man who attempted to physically subdue him. The girl - the young one who shouldn’t even have been there - raised her gun just as he rounded to look at her. She fired once, and Steve’s vision went blue.

He fell to his knees, hissing as lights danced in front of his eyes. He couldn’t see anything. He couldn’t see anything at all. He flailed when he felt someone touch him, and he could feel whoever it was go flying backwards. He forced his eyes opened. Bucky still hadn’t moved. he was perfectly motionless, kneeling on the ground, unresisting. Sam was sprawled beside him, unconscious or dead.

Pippin was quacking loudly, flapping her wings in the face of whoever it was that was drawing closer to where Bucky was kneeling. The bird was swatted to the ground, and Steve pushed himself upright. He was shot point blank in the head less than a moment later. He hit the ground, stunned and disoriented. His head lolled to the side. Someone had put their gun to the back of Bucky’s head - execution style.

Steve’s mouth felt like it had fallen asleep, pins and needles made his tongue feel swollen and wrong. He could feel his head starting to spin violently. Bile was rising up his throat. Bucky still hadn’t moved. There was another flash of blue, and Steve’s mind went quiet.

He didn’t have to wake up to know what happened.

He failed.

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It hurt sometimes, knowing that despite all the horrors, the pain, the devastation: Steve missed the war. It was more his home than the 21st century.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please be warned for this chapter. It does contain graphic scenes of violence. 
> 
> Full warnings are posted at the end of this chapter. PLEASE REVIEW THEM IF YOU ARE EASILY TRIGGERED.

Steve woke up in an enclosed room with hexagonal plates on the walls and a yellow grid field that kept him from leaving. He was dressed in a plain white cotton t-shirt and tan khakis. He was almost disappointed they hadn’t given him the shirt with the SSR symbol stamped on the front. It would have made the circle complete. Someone had shaved his beard, and cut his hair. He ran his finger across his chin and behind his ear, feeling the differences like he’d somehow lost a part of himself.

__

_(Safety, security, home.)_

Bucky wasn’t there. Neither was Sam. Steve sat up and glared at the barrier. Coulson was sitting on a chair on the other side. “Where’s Bucky?”

“Safe,” Coulson supplied politely.

“He was safe before. He was safe with me. He was safe in our house. Where is he now?”

“I’m sorry, Captain. I can’t tell you that.” Steve felt his muscles tighten and he stalked forwards. Electricity was coursing through the field, and he reached his hand towards it. He could feel the charge as it sparked across his palm. Pain lanced through his skin and muscle. He’d walk through it if he had to. He’d burn himself to a husk if it meant that at the end of the day, he was allowed to leave with Bucky and Sam at his side.

“Let me out.”

“Captain, do you know who you are?” The question was surreal. Steve had told him who he was. He’d said exactly who he was. He’d said who he was, what he wanted to be called, and then he had told Coulson and his agents to get off his property. Coulson was looking at him sadly, as though he’d done something to personally grieve the man.

“Do you?” Steve spat. “Because the last time I checked, you were dead. I attended your funeral.”

“Yes…” Coulson sighed. “Fury believed you needed the push, then. My survival was kept a secret.”

“Good for you.” Steve lowered his hand. “You were able to live the life you wanted without the Avengers or anyone else knowing about you. Congratulations. I can’t imagine how that must have felt.”

“It was lonely,” Coulson told him, smiling at him sadly.

“You seem to have found a few friends,” Steve hissed, refusing to be cowed.

“Captain, almost three years ago you helped remove a festering sore from within SHIELD. You led the attacks against Hydra. You were responsible for saving the lives of millions of people, again. Then you left, without ever saying a word.”

“It wasn’t handled the best.” It was the only concession Steve would give. Frankly. It wasn’t. Steve was fully aware of just how off the rails he was. He had not been even remotely capable of handling the situation, and it had been made all the more obvious once Sam started to be a voice of reason for them. Maybe it was because he had some perspective, maybe it was because Sam was just that good, but Steve had needed someone to help him - and Sam had been there the moment he’d asked.

But in the beginning, when Bucky had pulled off to the side of that road and they’d started their hike - Steve hadn’t made the right choice. He hadn’t made the right call. He hadn’t called Sam then, or even thought of getting help. His one thought had been to help Bucky, and that was it. He was starving, delirious, and physically drained of all resources. To say now that it had been the right call would be ludicrous. It wasn’t.

They made it through, though. Those first few months may have been hell for him, but at the end of the day: Bucky had remembered himself in that cabin. Away from the noise and the people of the world, he’d started to pull himself together just enough to make decisions on his own, to put his trust in Steve, to listen when Steve said they needed to call someone else in.

It had been worth it, in the end. While the isolation had been difficult to heal from, while the pain and the mishandling of it all had been a disaster to fix both amongst themselves and with Sam when he started trying to help, it had given Bucky time to level out just enough to see reason. It had set him up for the potential to succeed.

And he had succeeded. He’d started studying again. He’d started caring about things that were separate from himself. He loved his ducks. His ducks. His _ducks_.

“What happened to the ducks?” Steve asked breathlessly. He vaguely remembered Pippin in the middle of all that chaos. Coulson’s features scrunched up.

“The...ducks?” he clarified.

“There were three - three ducks. One of them was next to Bucky when you attacked him. What happened to it?” Coulson blinked. He didn’t know. He didn’t _know_. “It was Bucky’s _duck_ , it was _his_! What happened to it?”

“Captain Rogers-”

“Just tell me what happened to the duck!” Coulson didn’t have an answer. He stood up, and left the room. The yellow wall phased grey, and Steve couldn’t see anything on the other side. He howled with rage and slammed his fist into it, cursing when pain snapped through his limb and turned it numb. He stumbled back and slumped onto the cot. Bowing his head, he prayed. _(Please don’t let anything happen to Pippin, please don’t take away something that made him so happy.)_

He half wondered what was the use? God must have stopped paying attention to him a long time ago. He never should have gone back to church. Steve didn’t need to check his pockets. He already knew his rosary was gone.

* * *

Steve was visited by all of Coulson’s agents. Skye, Fitz, Simmons, Mack, and Hunter were new. Bobbi and May weren’t. He met May when he’d first come in to SHIELD. The Avengers had gone their separate ways, and Fury had given him the opportunity to expand his horizons with SHIELD’s trainers. He’d said that Steve’s skills as a hit-first-and-hope-for-the-best fighter weren’t going to cut it forever. He’d been right. May had spent several weeks training him.

__

_(“Why aren’t you in the field?” Steve asked, drinking several gulps from his water bottle._

__

_“We all have our places in life. Mine’s not there.”)_

Bobbi had been the one to take him to an isolated safe house after his a night terror gone wrong had ended with four people in the infirmary and him under heavy sedation. Steve had gone willingly, too numb from it all to think anything about his new residence. A cabin in the middle of the woods, surrounded by an electric fence. If nothing else, Bucky and Fury had similar ideas of retreats. (At least Bucky didn’t pretend he was trying to help ease Steve into the new world. They both knew better than that.) Bobbi had smiled as she dropped him off.

_(“I hope you like it here.” Steve didn’t tell her that he was city born and raised. He didn’t want to stay in the woods. He hated the woods. It reminded him of the war.)_

__

Steve didn’t want to talk to any of them. In fact, when they came, he only asked about Pippin, Bucky, and Sam. If they wanted to keep him prisoner, then they were going to keep him prisoner while he was furious and uncooperative. He wasn’t going to give them an inch, he wasn’t going to give them anything.

It took each one of Coulson’s agents, all stumbling over the best plan of attack on how to fix him, before they seemed ready to concede defeat. May came at the end of the day, holding a tin tray with food. He was not interested. He grinned viciously at her. “Where’s Bucky’s duck?” he asked.

She tapped a few buttons on the control panel and the yellow field opened just enough for her to bend down and slide the tray towards him. He kicked it so hard it cracked into her shin. Food went scattering across the floor. He only felt a little bad when she hissed and dropped to one knee, clutching at her leg. “ _Damn it_ , Rogers, we’re trying to help you,” she spat, rubbing at it. He hoped it hurt.

“I want to know what happened to Bucky’s duck.”

“It was shot.” Steve’s heart leapt to his throat. He stumbled back and sat on the bed. “We weren’t using real bullets. They were ICERs. The shot was calibrated for a super-human.” She looked at him expectantly, but his head was spinning too much for him to form a reaction. It wasn’t his fault they shot Bucky’s duck. He didn’t care what she was trying to imply. “We...were not aware of its importance. We didn’t check on it after.” Of course they didn’t. It was a duck, not a dog. Not a cat. To them, Pippin hadn’t been a pet. Pippin was just a wild animal they’d been feeding. Why would they have checked to see if the duck was all right? “Our priorities were to ensure your safety.”

“I was safe,” Steve choked. Christ, he was crying. “It was my house. I was safe. We were safe. We were fine. We-we were fine. It was his duck. It was his duck. He taught it tricks.” Pippin hopped on command and ate peas as treats. She fluttered to Bucky’s palm when he said ‘up.’ She lay on her back and let Bucky scratch her tummy and she gave little quacks to say hello. She was _Bucky’s_ duck.

“Steve...you weren’t safe there. I’m sorry you don’t see that now, but you will.” Steve shook his head.

“Where’s Sam?”

“He’s being debriefed.”

“He’s being detained?”

“Yes. He and Barnes both.”

“Why?” She didn’t seem surprised by the question.

“You’ve been gone for nearly three years, Steve. We just want to make sure you’re okay.”

“I’m fine! I told you I was fine! I want to see them.”

“We can’t do that.”

“I want to see them!” May shook her head. She pressed the control panel and the hole in the fence disappeared and was solid once more.

“I’ll get you more food.”

“Don’t bother,” Steve snapped. He wasn’t going to eat. If they wanted him to, they could come in here and make him. He’d love to see them try.

* * *

Steve lost track of time. He lay in the cell and he stared at the walls, and he lost track of how long it had been. He prayed that Bucky was all right. He prayed that there was a chink in this place soon, so he could get out and get Bucky out and they could disappear. They could go back to the cabin in the woods. They could hide out there, and no one would know. No one would find them. They could disappear.

Steve had failed. He’d promised Bucky he’d keep him safe. He promised no one would take him away. He’d failed. He cried. He spent most of his time crying. He knew that Coulson knew. He knew that Coulson was more than aware of what he was doing in his cell. It didn’t change the fact that at the end of the day - Steve was left to nothing but himself. He couldn’t help but cry. He’d failed. _Again_.

Someone brought food at random intervals, and he refused to eat it. He knew the hunger strike would only last so long. His body couldn’t handle that much of a loss in calories. But, until that point, Steve could only be rebellious in a few ways. He was Captain America. They weren’t going to let him die. Not yet.

From the state of his stomach, he’d probably been refusing food for three days by the time Coulson finally stood at the barrier and gave him a sympathetic look. “What can we do to help you?” he asked. He made it sound like Steve had asked them for this. Like he was doing Steve a favor.

“I want to see Bucky,” Steve told him firmly.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, given his hold on you.”

“I don’t care what you think is a good idea. You made this mess when you took us in.” Coulson seemed to consider it for a moment.

“No,” he replied. Steve’s stomach seared in pain. He ignored it. “I’m sorry, Captain. I can’t knowingly put a brainwashed victim in the same room as his abuser.” The answer sent Steve’s head spiraling.

“I would never abuse him-”

“That’s not what I was referring to Captain.” Coulson gave him a patient look. Steve took an embarrassingly long time to figure it out.

“You think he’s brainwashed me?”

“I’m not going to put you in front of him.”

“Bucky didn’t...didn’t abuse me. He’s my friend. We were there together. We made choices together. He wasn’t-he’s not _capable_ of brainwashing me.”

“I think, Captain. You’ll find that that’s wrong. Anyone’s capable of anything. It’s only a matter of time.” Steve shook his head and sat back. He didn’t have the energy to fight.

Coulson left.

They thought Bucky had kidnapped and abused him. They thought he was a brainwashed puppet. They thought that Bucky was a villain. He wasn’t. He was a victim who’d been so close to healing. He’d been so close to being whole. Steve grit his teeth. This wasn’t right. _This wasn’t right!_

There was a clanking noise above, and Steve frowned and looked up. It took a moment before he saw it. Something was hissing from the vents. Gas. Gas. His breath hitched and he pushed himself upright, covering his face with his palm. He stood, desperately trying to block off the gas, but it was coming from all directions. Multiple access points had opened above him. He couldn’t reach them all.

_(There was a sign on the door that said “Desinfizierte Wasche” or Disinfection Wash. The Commandos walked towards it, and pushed it open. There were shower heads along the ceiling, the walls were white, but filthy. It could have been a standard bathing room._

__

_“Mon Dieu,” Dernier rose a hand to his mouth and Steve followed his line of sight. The shower heads weren’t showerheads. There was something blue on the walls that Steve hadn’t noticed before. There were pink scraps of flesh on the concrete ground beneath them. This was-this was-they killed people here. Steve needed to go. He needed to go. He couldn’t be here-they had to get out now!)_

The gas kept coming. He couldn’t block it out. Steve’s vision swam. He didn’t have the strength to fight it. He was too weak. He hadn’t eaten in too long. He pressed a hand to the electric barrier. Shocks spiraled through him, and he swatted at it anyway, desperate to get out. Nothing changed.

Had to get out, there was Zyklon B-there was- He lost consciousness on the floor of his cell, tears staining his face. He was going to die.

* * *

Visions burst like fire-bugs across Steve’s eyes. Sounds swirled around him. His world tipped on its axis. His eyes filled with sand. His body was rearranged, it was poked and prodded. His senses were mixing. A sharp prick on his arm made his tongue tingle with nerves. A tube slid down his throat, and the scent of eggs bleached his skin. It didn’t make sense. None of this did.

People spoke around him, but he couldn’t cling to it. He couldn’t open his eyes. He couldn’t set it right. He dozed. In and out. Consciousness slipped from his grasp without his consent. He didn’t know what was happening. _(Why did he even sign up to go to war?)_ Steve floated over a sea of colors he couldn’t put together properly. His mouth opened and closed dryly, and the air felt stale and awful. He tried to understand. There was always someone with him, and they were always sad.

“I don’t like leaving him like this…”

“He’s never going to get better if we can’t figure out the trigger phrases.”

“Well we can’t do that while he’s drugged.”

“But...he’s Captain America.”

Steve gave up trying to listen. He fell asleep and let himself dream. There was something important that he needed to do, but he couldn’t remember what. It hurt to think. Everything hurt. He was so tired.

_(They’d been walking for a week and were exhausted. Even Peggy, dressed in boots and pants, had trudged through the forest with them. She had sweat sticking to her brow and her hair pulled back. Her makeup had been replaced by streaks of dirt. “Gettin’ sleepy?” Steve asked her as they stopped for a short while. He sat down beside her and she blinked up at him blearily. Her head moved and leaned against his shoulder._

__

_“Mmmm…” she agreed. He put an arm around her shoulders._

__

_“Get some rest, I’ll tell you when it’s time to move.” She didn’t reply. She just leaned against him and breathed deep. He’d hold her for the rest of his life if he could. She felt perfect at his side._

__

_He loved her. He truly did. Across the camp, Bucky smiled at him. It was worth stepping on all those toes and getting ignored on double dates if it got him here. He’d take it.)_

Steve woke up slowly. He forced his eyes open and he blinked up at the ceiling. He was still tied down, but the tube was gone. His head lolled to the side. Coulson was sitting across the barrier. He looked exhausted. Steve didn’t care. He felt like he’d separated from his body, as though everything was happening around him - detached from reality. He didn’t care about Coulson. He didn’t care about SHIELD. The only things he cared about, he couldn’t do anything for. Apathy weighed on his mind. He should have stayed in Brooklyn. Maybe Bucky would have died on that table in Azzano. Maybe Steve would have grown old and lonely. Maybe they’d have been saved from this.

“I understand that you’re upset.” Steve’s throat was too dry to come up with anything to say. He licked his lips and coughed. His esophagus burned. It felt like there was something lodged in it, though he knew the tube was gone. A phantom taste of powdered protein coated his tongue. It was revolting. He tried to move. He couldn’t. “Do you know what happened after you left?” When? What time. It didn’t matter. He closed his eyes.  He couldn’t go back to sleep.

“Hydra was in every part of SHIELD. We struggled. We really did. People we cared about, people that meant a lot to us - suddenly we found out that they were the enemy. They were extremists working for a cause that we never even knew to look for. We didn’t have a lot of options.” Coulson sighed. “One of my own men tried to kill us.”

Steve flexed his ankles. The metal cuffs chafed against his skin. He tried to move. Coulson reached out and touched something on the control panel nearest him. The cuffs snapped off. Sitting up, Steve rotated and stared at Coulson, rubbing at his wrists as the man continued speaking.

“Hydra needed more people to fill their ranks. They picked up agents, good agents, and they brainwashed them into listening to their every command.” There was an implication there. It took Steve nearly four minutes to finally drag his sluggish brain across the words enough to understand it.

“Bucky didn’t do that to me,” Steve told Coulson. His voice croaked badly. His throat seared in pain. He swallowed, but his mouth was too dry for it to matter.

“You wouldn’t know if he did,” Coulson refuted quietly. “And he admitted to it.” Steve felt his insides turn cold. He shook his head. Coulson tapped on the control panel again, and a video screen appeared on the wall beside Steve’s bed.

Bucky was sitting in a cell just like Steve’s. His head was upright, but his eyes were down. He was in perfect position. His sagging shoulders and relaxed posture had been left behind on the grassy field of a yard he should have been safe in. Steve had failed. He promised Bucky he’d be safe. He didn’t keep his promise. There were thick cuffs around Bucky’s arms, holding him motionless. A chain tied his neck to his ankles. He was locked in place, and he wasn’t even trying to escape. He was completely pliant under their direction.

Bobbi was sitting across from him, stone faced as she held open a file on the Winter Soldier. Steve could just make out the papers that Tony had had on his desk years ago. He recognized the photo clipped to one side. He recognized the form.

“After you left Stark tower, where did you go?” she asked him.

“John Beck’s cabin in Ontario,” Bucky replied flatly. Steve closed his eyes and forced himself to take a deep breath. _(Bucky, no.)_ His safehouse was all but gone now. He could never go back. They’d know. He’d never be able to find peace there again. Bobbi flipped through a few pages in the file.

“The same John Beck you killed in 2001?”

“Yes.”

“There’s no record of a cabin here.”

“It was unreported.” Bucky didn’t continue, but Steve could see the lines of tension on his face. He was terrified. _(“They’re going to punish me for this. They’re going to-they’re going to-they’ll know. They’ll know everything. They’ll know what I did!”)_

“Why did you go there?”

“Regroup. Reassess. Return. Protocol dictates to avoid a hostile force and ensure survivability of all personnel as necessary prior to completion of mission.” He was quoting something. Steve could hear the careful structure of his voice. He wasn’t shaking, but it was a near thing. Steve could almost hear this thoughts. _(How long until the torture starts?)_

“When were you planning on returning? It’s been years. You’re late.”

“Unknown allies. Unclear parameters. It was determined to wait until further instruction was provided.”

“You stayed with Captain Rogers the whole time?”

“Captain Rogers has potential as a valuable asset.” It was a non-answer.

“What were your plans with Captain Rogers? Why him? Why stay with him?”

“He believed me to be James Barnes. He ensured I was properly maintained, while I waited for retrieval. Captain Rogers goes wherever I go. He has the potential to be a valuable asset.”

“An asset to who?”

“Hydra,” Bucky replied. Bobbi closed the file.

“You’re a real piece of work,” she spat. “He trusted you. He trusted you and you would have turned him in? Had them do whatever they wanted to him?”

“He is a valuable asset,” Bucky repeated. “Is that incorrect?”

_(“Why didn’t they just kill you?” Steve asked quietly. “Why try for fifteen years to get you to change your mind?”_

__

_“I was a valuable asset. I had the serum, whatever Zola’s version was at least. You don’t decommission your assets. You find a way to make them work. Eventually, I did.”_

  
_“It wasn’t your fault.”_

__

_“I asked them to make me forget.”_

__

_“It still wasn’t your fault.”_

__

_“I didn’t want to be me anymore. I asked them to. I asked them to make me forget.”_

__

_“Bucky-it-it wasn’t your fault.” He stepped forwards and pressed a hand to Bucky’s arm. His friend didn’t move._

__

_“But it was.” There was nothing Steve could say to make him think otherwise.)_

“No,” Bobbi hissed. “He is an asset. Just not for you.” She scooped up the files and left him there. The cuffs stayed on. The chain kept him in place. His head sank down towards his collarbone, curled forward in defeat. The screen went dark.

Coulson gave him a few moments to collect himself. It wouldn’t make a difference. Steve already saw the truth. This wasn’t right. None of this was right.

“I’m sorry, Captain-”

“He thinks you’re Hydra.” Steve turned and glared. Coulson’s mouth snapped shut. “He think _you’re_ Hydra. That’s all he’s been saying for years. That someone was going to find us. That they were going to find him, take him back, and he was going to be in so much trouble for leaving them. He’s been terrified that Hydra was going to get him back. That’s why he didn’t fight you back at our house. That’s why he didn’t argue once. That’s why he went willingly the whole way and didn’t get involved. He’s convinced you’re going to torture him, wipe away his mind, and freeze him in ice until you have use for him again.”

“Captain, I know you think he’s your friend-”

“He is my friend! He is my friend, and he’s always going to be my friend. I want to see him.”

“That’s not a good idea.”

“I want to see my friend.” Coulson sighed and shook his head.

“I’m sorry Captain. I can’t allow that.”

“Where’s Sam?”

“Mr. Wilson is being questioned as to his involvement with Hydra.”

“He isn’t Hydra!”

“He knew where you were, despite the manhunt, and for over a year has aided and abetted a known criminal with affiliation to Hydra.”

“He’s not Hydra. You’re not listening to me!”

“Please calm down, Captain.”

“What’s the point? You’re not going to listen to me then either.”

“I’m sorry you feel that way Captain, but we’re trying to make things right.”

“This isn’t how you do it.”

Coulson shook his head, and left him alone. Steve glowered after him, punching the electric barrier just because he wanted to. His muscles went numb in an instant, and he stared down at his arm, limp and useless at his side.

_(“Come on Peggy! You can do it! Just a few more!” Steve walked into the training pitch to see Bucky and Peggy in perfect planks across from each other. Each had one arm behind their back, and was slowly lowering themselves in time with the other. Down. Then up. Down. Then up. Someone else was counting._

__

_“One-oh-one! One-oh-two! One-oh-three!” Peggy was gasping for air and Bucky was grinning at her like he’d seen the second coming. Down. Up. Down. Up. Down. Up._

__

_Peggy’s breaths were even more labored. There was a puddle of sweat on the dirt beneath her. She pushed herself down, and it seemed like her body was going to give out then and there- refusing to raise her one last time._

__

_“Do it for the Star Spangled Man with a Plan,” Bucky told her breathlessly, tilting his head towards Steve. She didn’t even look at him. She met Bucky’s gaze and her face set in determination._

__

_“I’m doing it, for_ me _.” She pushed herself up._

__

_“ONE-OH-SEVEN!” Cheers exploded all around them and Bucky laughed loudly as he brought his knees in to sit up. Peggy’s arm gave out beneath her, but Bucky didn’t let her fall. Instead, he shot forward and picked her up as though she weighed nothing. He boosted her up on his shoulders and ignored her mortified yelp as he paraded her about the quad._

__

_“One-oh-seven! One-oh-seven!” he chanted, even as she heaved for air. She hugged one arm to her chest and rested both on the crown of Bucky’s head, laughing slightly hysterically from the excess exertions. “One-oh-seven! One-oh-seven!”_

__

_As Bucky walked passed him, Steve gave her a salute. “Welcome to the One-oh-seventh, ma’am,” he greeted officiously. She beamed down at him._

__

_“One-oh-seven!” she managed to get out.)_

It hurt sometimes, knowing that despite all the horrors, the pain, the devastation: Steve missed the war. It was more his home than the 21st century. 

* * *

The powerplay with the food had made its point perfectly clear. Steve could choose to starve himself, and they would respond by forcing him to eat. They did it another three or four times before Steve acquiesced. The gas was strong enough to knock him out, and he was ashamed to admit that it terrified him. Each time he saw it coming, he tried to leave, but he was always too weak to fight back. Then, as soon as he started to come back to consciousness, he had to fight through the drugs and the nonsense that filled his brain. He was tired of waking up with his throat raw and of the hazy confusion that didn’t clear for days. He was losing time. Whenever they sedated him, he lost time. He didn’t know how long he’d been here. He didn’t know where Sam was. He didn’t know where Bucky was. He didn’t know what they were doing to them. _(Please don’t let them do this to him.)_

Coulson played him video clips of Bucky’s interrogation. His hair was getting longer. His beard was growing in. While Steve was always kept in the good-ol-boy style of Captain America, clean shaven with hair just so, Bucky didn’t seem to receive the same kind of consideration. He was a Hydra agent. He didn’t deserve any favors. Steve hated knowing that while he was unconscious someone was trimming his hair, shaving his beard, washing his body. He hated knowing that his clothes were being replaced and he didn’t know when it was happening. He wished they thought he was a traitor too. He wished they’d just leave him alone. They continued trying to be nice.

In each video, one of Coulson’s staff would interrogate Bucky. He would give them flat answers with no inflection. He’d tell them anything they wanted to know. He never once argued with them. He was unfailingly polite. He was loyal to Hydra in every interview. He made that perfectly clear.

“Does anyone know I’m here?” Steve asked May after she came to drop off another meal. Sometimes he thought he might be able to work out what time it was, but it always evaded him. He’d count seconds in his cell, and the meals weren’t coming at appropriate intervals. He didn’t know if it was morning, noon, or night. Everything was high-calorie and tasteless,  meant to keep him running, but give him little else to go off of. He didn’t know if it was breakfast, lunch, or dinner. He didn’t know what was happening.

“Anyone?” she prompted.

“Tony, Natasha, Clint?”

“Do you want to see them?” That was a ‘yes’ then. His _friends_ knew what was happening. The advert that had been playing since Bucky and he fled rolled through Steve’s mind. They thought Bucky had killed him. Now that they knew that he hadn’t, they clearly were prepared to bring Steve back from the brink of whatever madness that had to be affecting him.

“No.” They could disapprove all they wanted, he didn’t want to see them in person and feel that betrayal first hand. May nodded her head.

“You should eat.”

He didn’t want to eat. He wanted to see Bucky.

It didn’t matter what he wanted. He ate.

_(“The little guy from Brooklyn who was too dumb not to run away from a fight. I’m following him.”)_

Out of all the fights in the world, Steve had never won any of the ones that mattered.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Steve wonders what they really want from him. He wonders if it’ll matter in the end. They’ll never believe him. Why not lie? Why not lie and get out of here and see what he can do on the other end of that barrier? He could track down Bucky. He could set him and Sam free. He could do something other than this.

“I know you’re concerned for your Sergeant Barnes’ health,” Coulson told him gently. Steve was exhausted. He was bored into immobility. A wall of apathy had taken all of his strength, and guilt took what was left of his hope. He’d say he’d been battling depression since he arrived in this cell, but a battle means he fought against it. Frankly, depression had always been there. There was no battle to be won. He’d already given up.

“I want to see him.”

“We’ve gone through all the files,” Coulson continued. They never acknowledged it when he asked to see Bucky. “We’ve discussed all the possibilities on how to proceed from here.”

“I want to see him,” he repeated.  

“The T.A.H.I.T.I protocol was an experimental project that helped reinstitute individuals into the real world. Our greatest concern for Sergeant Barnes is his loyalty to Hydra.”

“He’s lying. He just doesn’t want to get in trouble.”

“We believe this protocol will keep that from being a possibility.” Steve paused and tried to understand what he was talking about. He shook his head. The hesitation still didn’t afford the right amount of clarity.

“What are you talking about?”

“The T.A.H.I.T.I protocol is used to restructure memories.” _No_. “We can give him a new life.” _No_. “One that doesn’t have any ties to Hydra.” _No_. “One that gives him the chance to be happy.” _No_. “He’ll be safe.”

“No,” Steve said outloud. “No. You can’t do this-”

“Captain-”

“NO!” He threw himself to his feet and moved straight to the electric barrier. He could feel sparks scatter across his flesh. He didn’t care. “That’s all he’s thought was going to happen since he got here! He was going to be tortured - his memory erased - to be used however you wanted to use him!”

“We’re not Hydra,” Coulson told him. “We’re not going to turn him into a mindless assassin.”

“But you’ll turn him into something else!”

“We asked him for his permission first.” Dread slid through him. Oh God. _(“I asked them to. I didn’t want to remember. I didn’t want to remember what I did. I asked them to.”)_

“No. No you can’t do this. You can’t do this. He-he was getting better. He was getting better!”

“Captain, he’ll be happy.” It hadn’t happened then. Not yet. He _will_ be happy. There was time to stop this. Steve let his eyes look to the barrier between them, searching for the hundred-thousandth time for a way through. “He won’t remember Hydra. He won’t remember the war. He won’t remember what he did. He can live a normal life. A life he deserves. No pain, no suffering. He’ll be happy, at peace.”

“Until Hydra really does find him again,” Steve spat. “And he doesn’t know that he can fight back, because he doesn’t know what’ll happen. They’ll tear him apart all over again, and he’ll never even know why!”

“We won’t let that happen.”

 

_(“Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”)_

“You’re not going to do it at all.”

“The procedure has already started,” Coulson told him. Steve sent a punch at the barrier. He could feel his arm go numb, but that didn’t matter. He hit it again. Again. Again. Again. He threw himself at the barrier. He struck out hard and fast and he didn’t stop, even when Coulson started to try to yell insistently for him to stop. Steve wasn’t going to let this happen. No amount of: “It’s for the best. He won’t be in pain anymore. He’ll be okay,” mattered. It wasn’t for the best. None of this was. Buttons tapped. Gas started to spiral around him. He held his breath. He could do this. He had to do this. He couldn’t let Bucky down. Not again. Not like this. He promised.

Steve punched as hard as he possibly could, and the barrier fizzled and cracked - it shorted out. Coulson’s blood drained from his face. His mouth opened wide, Steve hit him and didn’t care at all when the man went flying back. He didn’t stop to see if Coulson was all right, he just kept running. Let the gas take him.

Alarms blared.

* * *

 

No one was ready for him when he hit the hall. He flew passed everyone - throwing open doors and breathlessly examining each room. Sam was in a cell only four doors down from him. He looked up when Steve burst in and was on his feet the moment Steve reached for the control panel. It took seconds.

“They’re going to wipe his mind,” was all Steve managed to say before he took off. Sam was running at his back. They didn’t have time.

SHIELD agents scattered, startled and uncertain. Those who thought to shoot them were immediately disarmed. Steve threw anything he could get his hands on, knocking back agent after agent as terror clawed at his insides.

Sam managed to get hold of a gun from one of the fallen agents, and he was shooting it at anyone who dared to stand in their way. Signs turned them this way and that, and eventually they came to a series of medical suites. Steve picked up the pace. He wasn’t going to let this happen.

There was a door at the far end of the corridor, and Steve hit it with his shoulder. An observation room, the operating bay was on the other side. Coulson’s agents - Skye, Simmons, and Fitz all were watching the procedure through a glass window. They turned to look at them, surprised that they were there. Steve hated them.

“Get out of my way,” he hissed.

“Captain Rogers-” he swiped the wall to his left and tore a clipboard from it. He threw it directly into the face of one of them and Sam shot another. The third went down with a punch to the gut. Steve was inside the operating room in less than a minute.

Doctors scattered. They’d seen the commotion and immediately pressed themselves to the walls, desperate to get out of his way. Bucky, _God_ Bucky, was lying on the table. His wrists and ankles were bolted down and his hair had been shaved away. Someone had started the incision on his scalp. Tears were streaming down his face. An awful machine was poised and ready to do whatever it was meant to do - dozens of needles sharply aimed forwards as though they were going to shock and repeat until whatever was left of James Buchanan Barnes was finally washed from existence.

“Buck, Bucky.” Steve caught one of his friend’s hands in his, pressed the other to his head. Frightened eyes swiveled to look at him. Oh God, he was awake. His throat contracted, but didn’t let a word come out. He was shaking violently, so close to seizing that Steve half wondered if he truly was. He wasn’t. He was petrified. “We’re going. We’re going now.” Steve looked at the cuffs, then at the doctors. “Release him.”

“C-Captain Rogers-” Sam shot a bullet right above the doctor’s head. It saved Steve from having to leave Bucky’s side. _(Thank God for Sam Wilson)._

“Release him right now!” Sam shouted. A nurse darted towards them, pulling a key from her pocket. She unhooked Bucky’s binds. Immediately he surged forwards, face pressed against Steve’s chest as he gasped for breath. This wasn’t a panic attack. This was a full blown meltdown. Steve pressed a hand against Bucky’s scalpel wound, gritting his teeth as blood smeared across his palm.

Where Steve’s health had been regimented to the point that they forced nutrients in him if he wasn’t complying, Bucky’s was permitted to deteriorate. His left arm was the heaviest part on him, and he was sagging under the weight. This was so much worse than at the cabin. This wasn’t even sustainable. This was horrifying. Bucky couldn’t hold his arm up properly. It was tearing him apart. Nearly half a dozen clicks sounded at once, and Steve turned towards the door. Coulson’s agents had time to regroup and were standing there - weapons drawn. “We’re leaving,” he spat out. Bucky’s fragile body was crumbling before him. Defeat was surging within him. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right.

Coulson stumbled forwards. Apparently Steve hadn’t hit him hard enough, and someone clearly had gotten him out of the gas before he was down for the count. What a pity. “I understand you’re upset.”

“You don’t have any idea why I’m upset you _sanctimonious bastard!_ ”

“Sergeant Barnes consented-”

“Sergeant Barnes can’t consent to _anything!_ ” Sam shouted, swiveling around so his gun was aimed right back at the agents. “Fuck, _I_ can’t consent to anything that’s happening after what you’ve done since we got here.”

“Mr. Wilson-”

“You can’t keep people in solitary confinement, interrogate them for days on end, taking away any agency or sense of self they might have, then ask them if they want to participate in - what I’m pretty sure is - _illegal human experimentation!"_  Sam’s breath was heaving. He was trembling too. Sweat was slipping down his head. Steve had done this. He’d brought his only two friends in the world to this point.

“This is going to be better for him, why can’t you see that?” Skye asked. Bucky flinched in Steve’s arms.

“Because we’re not brainwashed into thinking everything coming out of Coulson’s mouth is the word of God!” Sam retorted.

“He won’t remember Hydra. He won’t know what they did. He’ll have a life - a happy life!”

“It’s a lie!”

“He consented! He asked us to do it!” 

“We already established he can’t consent to this!”

“So he’d rather just be a brainwashed assassin that threatens the life of his best friend every day?”

“Did you even ask him!?”

“Of course we asked him!”

“What were you going to put in?” Steve asked. Everyone’s attention snapped from Sam to Steve in an instant. “You said you were going to replace his memories. What were you going to put in? Would he even know who I was?”

“He would have been born in the 1980s,” Coulson said carefully. “Raised here in the modern world. We would have given him a life here.”

“So no. He wouldn’t remember me. He wouldn’t remember his family. He wouldn’t remember anything about himself.” It was a horrible dream. A twisted reality that made no sense. They truly believed that this was better.

“He’d have a new family, memories of good things. We’d leave him with his knowledge how to fight, in case he needed it-” The pieces fell into place.

“He was going to be a soldier.” He laughed. “You were going to what- make him a SHIELD Agent?” They were silent. “How is that not _exactly_ what Hydra wanted to do to him?”

“It would be penance, a way to give back to society. He killed dozens of important political figures, he-”

“It wasn’t _him!_  He wasn’t aware of what was happening. His memory had been erased, replaced by a desperate need to follow Hydra’s orders or else. How is what you’re doing any different? How are you not _exactly_ what Hydra was?” The agents looked amongst each other, awkward and uncertain. Coulson shook his head.

“We’re not the bad guys-”

“Well you’re certainly not the _good_ guys,” Sam spat.

“You’ve walked too long in shades of grey to even know there _is_ a right and wrong,” Steve told him shortly. “Just wipe his mind. Put someone else in - someone who’s loyal to you and not Hydra. Wind him up and watch him go. It doesn’t matter that he was finally finding himself again. It doesn’t matter that he was finally becoming the person he wanted to be. It doesn’t matter that he was dealing with it. It doesn’t matter that he knows it’s not his fault. It doesn’t matter about any of that. You’re going to do what you want, because you’re the hero of your story and he will never be anything but a villain.” Steve took a deep breath. “I was right three years ago. Everything should have been burned to the ground. Especially _you._ ”

Coulson flinched badly. Steve didn’t care. He turned to Bucky and shifted his hand so he could cup his face.

“Tell me what you want,” he ordered firmly. Bucky looked up at him, and Steve half expected him to say _Whatever you do_. He didn’t. He licked his lips. He drew one breath in. His feet planted firmly on the ground. He steadied himself against the table. His lips trembled, and Steve had to lean closer to hear his voice. It was broken and wake, but he heard each word. 

“I want to go home. Please...I-I want to go home.” That was good enough for Steve. He looked back at the others.

“We’re leaving.”

This time, when they moved to leave, no one stopped them. Steve wasn’t even completely sure why. Perhaps the truth hurt. Good. He hoped it festered like an open wound and killed them from the inside. He didn’t have time to deal with them right now. His priority was to get Sam and Bucky out of here, and that was exactly what he was going to do.

He walked forwards, and Bucky moved behind him. Sam took up the rear. Mack tugged Fitz and Simmons out of the doorway and let them pass. Skye actually had tears in her eyes. May and Bobbi were passive and lost. Hunter looked sick. Coulson didn’t move. He didn’t say a word. Steve didn’t care.

  
They were going home. He was done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Steve remembers a series of extremely violent and disturbing memories from the Holocaust. He confuses a sedative for Zyklon B, and has a series of hysterical panic attacks as a result. 
> 
> Steve goes on a hunger strike in an effort to make SHIELD listen to his requests. They resort to force feeding him. 
> 
> Project T.A.H.I.T.I. is discussed and is in the process of being commenced. 
> 
> Unlawful imprisonment, assault, and the usual nightmares/depression/anxiety also ensue.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They had made a deal seventy five years ago, and it still held true until today. Time to stop standing still. They had a war to end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings from last chapter still apply, there is another Holocaust reference in this chapter that is graphic. Please be advised.

They were in the middle of Montana, and it was Christmas. Snow was on the ground, lights were in the trees, children were caroling. Driving through towns and across state borders was a lesson in surrealism. They weren’t dressed for the weather, and they didn’t have any way to deal with it. Steve stared at the world around them and he wished he knew where he was going or what he was doing. He didn’t. He really didn’t.

“You should...call your family,” Steve told Sam quietly. Sam glanced towards him. They didn’t have any way for Sam to call them. They didn’t have any way of doing anything. Steve felt his stomach roll as nausea spiralled within him.

They barely made it to the side of the road before he threw the car in park and stumbled out to puke wetly on the ground. Everything was a mess. _Everything_. He didn’t even know where to start. He had voluntarily worked for those people. He’d voluntarily served with them. He’d followed their commands. He’d fought at their sides. He’d done what they asked.

How many times had he been doing wrong and didn’t know it? How many times was the carpet going to be jerked out from under him?

The World Security Council had been appalled when Pierce’s plan had come to light. They’d immediately refuted that they would ever use such technology to harm innocents. But they had built the helicarriers, and planned for their launch. They’d built them with the knowledge that one day they were going to stop all crime by killing all those that stood in their way.

Pierce was right. Hydra - SHIELD? It was the same ship with a different name. At least Hydra agents admitted that they were assholes. SHIELD liked to pretend their hands were clean. The exhaustion and the horror that had been spinning through Steve the moment the news broke three years ago was now all he could think of. He choked and puked again, coughing into the grass as he listened to Sam step out of the vehicle and crouch by his side.

“I’m sorry,” Steve told him. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s not your fault,” Sam replied calmly.

“Why are you being so patient?” Steve asked, slamming a hand to his eyes in an ineffectual attempt to stop crying.

“Fuck, Steve, I’m not going to lie- I’m pissed. I’m pissed and I’m hurt, and I’m not going to be okay with any of this for a long time, but Steve - this is not your fault. None of this is.”

“I shouldn’t have crashed the plane.” That’s what it all came down to. This horrible story could all have been avoided if he’d just found a better way to deal with the Valkyrie. Hell, even if he’d given Peggy his coordinates, he would have been found and defrosted in 1945. He would have gone back to find that Bucky’s body wasn’t at the bottom of that ravine. He would have hunted him down until he saved him from Hyda - seventy years on time. He would have kept Hydra from infiltrating SHIELD. He could have fixed everything. Sam was wrong. All of this really was his fault.

The car door opened and Bucky stumbled towards him. He crouched at Steve’s side, and he pressed a hand to Steve’s shoulder. “I forgive you,” he said.

The tears came harder. He didn’t know what to say.

* * *

 

They slept in their stolen car, huddled under thick stolen blankets, and staying alive by sheer tenacity. They were exhausted and didn’t have any sense of direction. They knew they couldn’t fight an army - Steve still didn’t know if Coulson and his agents took his shield when he was taken three months ago. They were defeated and tired, and if someone wanted to come for them - they could.

At five am - Tony Stark came for them, and he brought coffee.

Ironman tapped on the glass window of the driver’s seat and Steve jolted awake, scrambling backwards and going nowhere. He stared at the metal suit, and watched as the faceplate slid up to reveal Tony’s face.

“We should talk.” Steve turned to look at Sam and Bucky. He looked back at Tony. Tony exited his suit without even a word being spoken. He stood, unprotected in the cold, and waited for Steve to make the next move.

Steve opened the door. “Yes,” he murmured. “We probably should.”

Tony had a whole carrying tray full of hot beverages and doughnuts. He pushed them into Steve’s arms, and he held them limply for a moment. He didn’t know what to do. Sam was sitting at his side, Bucky was sprawled in the backseat. He was shifting upright, arms crossed in front of his chest and watching Tony over Steve’s shoulder, but no one moved to do anything with Tony’s offering.

Tony rolled his lips, then spoke.  “So last night we get a call from Bobbi Morse- who apparently was besties with Clint in assassin school - and she tells us that they made a mistake. ‘Who made a mistake?’ we ask. ‘SHIELD’ she says. Now, we were all under the assumption SHIELD was gone, but it turns out my sparkling new assistant - Maria Hill - is a lying liar who lies. Not only is SHIELD alive and well, but it’s got a dead man’s at the helm too. More than that - any leads we’ve been getting on anything of importance, she’s been funneling to him- including one of JARVIS’ analyses that led to the home of one George Martin and one Christian Lawrence.

“We got there about an hour after they left, apparently, and we find a fight gone wrong, an unconscious duck, and a spangly shield in the closet-”

“Unconscious?” Steve blurted out. Tony looked startled at the interlude.

“Um? Yes? It’s fine. Bruce really likes animals, apparently, and didn’t want to leave it there so we took it to a vet. It was out for a really long time, but the vet kept an eye on it and I think Jolly Green said that it woke up. They’ve been trying to figure out what hit it to begin with, since there wasn’t any tranquilizer darts nearby, but they think it’s all good.”

“Pippin’s alive?” Bucky asked, voice cracking as he shifted in the back. Tony didn’t even flinch.

“Yeah, Terminator, the duck’s alive.”

Steve’s shoulders started shaking. Tony reached out and rescued the coffee and doughnuts so that they didn’t end up in a mess on Steve’s lap. He was laughing. He was laughing, and crying, and Tony looked bewildered as Steve had a hysterical breakdown in the car. Too many emotions happening at once had yielded a temporary break. He had no idea what he was supposed to be doing with his life, and right now- he was hysterical. Their duck was alive. Perhaps it spoke to just how exhausting this entire experience had been, that the cause of such unimaginable relief came from the fact that Bucky’s _duck_ was still alive. “Oh God,” Steve said again, crying and laughing and shaking his head.

“Really liked that duck, huh?” Tony asked, oddly compassionate for once in his life.

“We really did,” Steve told him. His body was raising the white flag, and he honestly couldn’t deal with this anymore. He hunched in his seat and pressed his hands to his head. He spared a glance at Bucky and Sam. Both had small smiles on their waifish faces.

Tony waited until Steve’s hysteria had died down, and then continued slowly. “So Bobbi went on, and tells us that they thought that Robocop had brainwashed you into thinking you were some reclusive Texan painter, and apparent duck lover, and was waiting for the perfect opportunity to turn you in to Hydra. Eventually she gets to the part where in order to test this theory they kept you in solitary confinement and had to deal with you going on hunger strike-”

“On what?” Sam asked.

“Hunger strike,” Tony repeated. “Apparently he refused to eat until he could see you.”

“But you never did,” Bucky whispered. His voice was laden with confusion. “You were never there.”

“Bucky-” Steve twisted to look at him.

“You were never there - it was months, how did you-” Bucky fell silent.

“Feeding tube, according to Agent Barbie,” Tony offered unhelpfully.  

“What?” Sam’s voice was shaking. Bucky was frozen in the back seat. He shook his head and closed his eyes, forcing his attention towards his knees. Steve reached towards him, but the moment his fingers touched his leg, Bucky flinched badly.

“Feeding tube,” Tony repeated. “They had him drugged into oblivion for a couple months while they tried to work out what to do with his apparent Hydra handlers.” Tony Stark, for the first time in years, actually sounded appalled at something in Steve’s defence. Steve looked from Bucky to Sam, and clenched his teeth as Sam seemed to go pale. His dark skin looked waxen in the pre-dawn light. “And, even though we had more than enough to say in regards to that little tidbit, she still took nearly an hour beating around the bush before she finally explained what they were planning on doing with Barnes.”

“You don’t approve?” Steve asked quietly. It was the only question that mattered. Sam was shaking his head in disgust, and Bucky was still curled up in the back. He didn’t know what they were thinking. He didn’t know what he was supposed to be doing.

“No,” Tony spat. “I don’t.” Steve finally returned his gaze to his old friend. He was furious, as though the mere suggestion was an affront to everything he was trying to do with his life.

“You were against Bucky from the start,” Steve murmured. “You had the same files they did. You told everyone he kidnapped me. You put his face on the news for years, that he killed me on top of everything else.”

“I did.” His voice was steady. Firm. He wasn’t denying it. He was taking ownership. “He killed my parents,” Tony continued, “and I thought - I thought he killed you after I fucked up and sent you away.”

“He didn’t.”

“No. He didn’t.” Tony sighed. “I screwed up, Steve. I’m man enough to admit it. There was no reason to think he killed you. I just-you were gone, and there was no sign of him, and I thought I’d lost a good friend because I was too drunk and too grief ridden to notice. And in case it means anything, I haven’t touched a drop since you left.” That was surprising. Tony shoved a hand into his pocket and held up a coin, a worn number ‘3’ sat embossed at the center. “Pepper got me a good person to talk to. Kinda like your Sam.”  Tony motioned towards him with his chin. “Who, in case their were any doubts, considering the months of isolation and interrogation, is not Hydra.” Sam hissed a few choice words under his breath, and Bucky’s knuckles cracked when his hand formed a fist. Steve couldn’t see his face. It was ducked down and away, hidden in the shadows of his posture.

“We know,” Steve replied tightly. Tony sighed and shook his head. He wasn’t okay with any of this either. Steve licked his lips. “Promise me you didn’t know about this,” Steve requested. “They said you did. They said you were there. Or-or maybe they didn't say it directly, but they _implied_ that you knew about everything. Please, please just promise me you didn’t know what they were going to do when they found us.”

“I didn’t know about this,” Tony swore. He didn’t hesitate for one moment. He met Steve’s eyes head on. “I didn’t think anyone besides us was really going to take you in. I didn’t think that they were going to take it to this extent even if they did. I didn’t know that you were even _alive_ , and, fuck, I didn’t think that they wouldn’t talk to you first once they found you. I didn’t know, Steve.”

“I wasn’t brainwashed,” Steve told him firmly.

“That,” Tony asserted, “I do know.” There was a long pause, and then he shook his head. “I’m against a lot of things, Steve, one of which happens to be torture. I didn’t know they were going to do this. I didn’t even know SHIELD was still around.”

“Okay,” Steve said. That was it. They were done. Forgiveness given and accepted. Tony nodded.

“I had JARVIS freeze everything. We’ll be working with the government to pick up all SHIELD personnel and figure out just what the hell they were thinking. We’ll find everyone else they’ve brainwashed lately - sounds like that Skye girl’s father was the first one on their list.”

“She brainwashed her own father?”  

“It’s a mess,” Tony agreed quietly. “We don’t even know where to start.”

“What are you going to do with us?” Steve asked. Tony took a deep breath and shook his head. He peered into the car towards Bucky, and Steve forced himself not to give into temptation and move to block Tony’s view.

“I’m going to have a long talk with the President. I’ve got a meeting with him in the morning. Lets see if I still have enough pull from saving his life four years ago in order to get him to exonerate you, or at least make it clear you’re not going to go to jail for any of this.”

“Why?” Bucky asked him. He didn’t move from where he was huddled. His voice was barely a whisper now. He’d strained it too much.

“Because there’s no place in this world that you can go where you’ll get a fair trial. Between what I did to start this mess to begin with, and what SHIELD did to get their point across - you’re never going to have a chance to get through to these assholes.” Tony rose a hand to his face. He squeezed the bridge of his nose. “I’ve spent the past nine hours watching your interrogation videos. Christ kid, anyone could see it if they were looking for it. They were so busy searching for a tree that they missed the God-damned forest. It wasn’t your fault. I should have known that three years ago. It wasn’t your fault. And I used my name, my money, and my position to start a manhunt on you and you didn’t deserve it. You really didn’t.”

“I killed your parents,” Bucky murmured. Tony flinched.

“Yeah.” He dropped his hand to his side. “Did you know who they were?”

“My targets.” Tony nodded.

“Did you know he was your friend?”

“No.”

“You know what?” Tony forced a smile. It was dark and jagged around the edges. He may not have had a drink in three years, but Steve didn’t doubt he wanted one now. “I believe you.”

* * *

Tony arranged everything. He got them back to their house in Texas, and then offered to fly Sam to his parents’ place so he could see them. He hesitated before accepting, but both Bucky and Steve encouraged him to go. He’d left one war to end up in another that he never should have been caught up in. He deserved the chance to heal on his own terms.

They’d be fine. For now. Their house was the same as they’d left it. It was dark and a touch dusty, but it was theirs. Steve leaned against the kitchen counter, breathed in the smell of the place, and tried to relax.

It was so hard.

Pippin was resting at a care clinic nearby. Tony said he’d arrange it so she could come home in the morning. There shouldn’t be any trouble reintegrating her back into the wild. The clinic had checked her over and over, but once whatever was in the ICER wore off, she started back on the mend.

Steve closed his eyes and breathed in. He was so tired. He could sleep for a week, a month, a year. He might have even done so in that cell. “You asked to forget?” he asked Bucky quietly. He knew he shouldn’t. He knew that it wasn’t fair. They’d just gotten back, and Bucky had lost so much already. He was hurting too. It wasn’t right to pressure him now.

“No,” Bucky replied. Steve met his eyes. Bucky was looking right at him. He didn’t try to move his gaze away. After all this time, he was finally making eye contact. Steve didn’t have a clue why. “They asked if I wanted to be a better person.” His eyes went wet. Steve reached towards him. “I said ‘yes’ to that.”  He grabbed Bucky and pulled him close. Bucky’s arms wrapped around his back and they cried together. They cried until their tears dried up and their breathing went flat. It took hours to get it all out. They sat on the floor of their Texan kitchen, and they tried to make sense of the world.

No divine light came down to shed understanding. No mentor came back to put things into perspective. There was nothing at all except for themselves, reeling from events that had gone so very wrong, and struggling to put one foot in front of the other.

_(“Are you all right, Steve?” Peggy walked towards him. It was raining and her hair hung in tangled clumps by the side of her face. He shook his head._

__

_“Larry Gilmore died today.” She sat beside him._

__

_“Is this the first time you lost a soldier?” It was. “It doesn’t get easier.”_

__

_“What do I do?”_

__

_“The only thing you can do,” she placed her hand on his. “You remember the good times, you remember the bad, and you honor the life he led.”_

__

_“It hurts….you know?”_

__

_“I do. But if it didn’t hurt, it would mean you never cared. You are not a man who does not care, Steve. You care too much. You care for everyone, even if you’ve only met them once. It’s one of the beautiful things about you.” He couldn’t find the strength to smile. “You’re not a ghost in the shell of a soldier, mindlessly following orders and waiting you be set free. You’re the soul of this army, this unit. These men follow you because they love you, because they respect you. More of them are going to die. There’s nothing you can do to stop that. But you can always keep them alive. They’ll never truly be dead so long as you keep them with you.” They sat there for hours, remembering the dead. It made Steve brave enough to face the future.)_

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Pippin came home.

She all but burst out of her box when she saw Bucky. She quacked so loudly that Bucky smiled at her. Two days after nearly losing everything at the hands of fanatics who thought they were doing the right thing, and Bucky Barnes was smiling at his duck. Pippin flapped her wings, moving quickly to Bucky’s side. She flapped and waddled over at full speed, before hop, hop, hopping for her palmful of peas. Bucky gave them to her upon request.

She fluttered against him. She quacked again and again, rubbing her neck against Bucky’s hand and pecking at his boots, his fingers, his body in general. The animal technician who was assigned to bring Pippin home didn’t seem to know what to make of it. It was unnatural, apparently. Steve politely thanked the woman and asked her if she could leave. They could take it from here.

She shrugged, “Whatever,” and left.

Pippin was given duck diapers to wear while she was in the house, so she could waddle around without pooping on everything. She had them when she was in the vet’s office, and she didn’t seem to mind them. In fact, she seemed very content hopping around inside, and she found her favorite spot on Bucky’s lap. He pet her gingerly, and she quacked whenever he delayed in stroking her feathers for a moment too long.

Steve looked at his paint set, and he considered if he wanted to start trying to draw again. The pain of SHIELD’s captivity was too raw, though. He couldn’t find the motivation to move forwards. And he knew that if he did, he would draw Bucky weak and emaciated, a survivor of a concentration camp he was never a prisoner in. Memories were conflicting in Steve's mind, and he couldn't separate them. Bucky's shaved head and too-thin body was sending electricity down his spine. He couldn't do this anymore. He couldn't. 

He was tired.

He lay down on his bed and he tried to sleep, and he woke up choking for breath. Gas filled his mind and his airways, he couldn’t breathe he couldn’t breathe.

“Steve-Steve-Steve!” Something caught him by the shoulders, and Steve threw a punch, blindly, not thinking, and his target only registered when Bucky’s head snapped to the side. A bruise blossomed immediately, and Steve gasped for breath. He stumbled back, away from his friend who was looking at him with wide eyes.

“I’m sorry-I-I didn’t mean to. I-”

“It’s okay,” Bucky assured. Pippin was quaking indignantly beside them. Steve pressed his palms to his eyes, shivering.

His throat constricted and he coughed. His fingers scratched at his neck, and he coughed again. Again. He coughed harder. He tried to breathe in, but it just led to more coughing. Bucky crawled towards him, and after a moment he carefully wound an arm around his back. “Breathe,” he commanded.  

“I can’t-”

“If you can talk you can breathe, so breathe.” Bucky’s voice was no nonsense. He gave Steve a hard shake to prove his point, and Steve choked on the air. He was hyperventilating, breathing faster and faster.

Bucky was whispering against his ear, talking urgently, but the words weren’t registering. They were being drowned out by the sound of gas filling the room. They had to go. They had to go or they were all going to die. He pushed himself to his feet and dragged Bucky after him, coughing and getting the whole while. The front door banged open as he scrambled into the yard. He rubbed at his eyes - they were burning from the poison- his knees hit the cold ground beneath him.

He could still hear the gas coming all around them, despite the open air of their back yard. He squinted through blurred eyes towards the pond. They needed to get the Zyklon off them. Their skin would rot if they didn’t.

He tried to grab Bucky, tried to tell him what they needed to do, but he couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t speak because he couldn’t breathe. Bucky was talking, repeating the same words over and over. Steve strained to hear them, strained to hear what was so important that Bucky was willing to die in the gas over it.

“-tecum. Benedicta tu in mulieribus…..pro nobis peccatoribus, nunc….Amen.” His eyes fluttered as he stared at Bucky’s lips. “Repeat it.” He lost the first few words, but Bucky continued. “plena, Dominus tecum. Benedicta tu in mulieribus, et benedictus fructus ventris tui, Iesus…” By the second rotation, Steve managed to make his lips work. He knew this. He knew this prayer. Bucky wasn’t supposed to, but he did. He’d known it for years. He’d paid attention for years.

“Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum....Ben-benedicta tu in mu-mulieribus, et benedictus fructus ven-ven-ven-ventris tui, Iesus. Sanc-ta Maria, Ma-ter Dei, ora-ora pro nobis pec-peccatoribus, nunc, et in hora mortis nostrae. Amen.” Bucky nodded firmly.

“Repeat it.” He repeated it. Again. Again. Again. Then the Lord’s Prayer.

“Pater noster, qui es in caelis, sanctificetur nomen tuum. Adveniat regnum tuum. Fiat voluntas tua, sicut in caelo et in terra. Panem nostrum quotidianum da nobis hodie, et dimitte nobis debita nostra sicut et nos dimittimus debitoribus nostris. Et ne nos inducas in tentationem, sed libera nos a malo. Amen.”

Bucky leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his forehead, like the fathers at church, offering forgiveness in the eyes of God. He need only the Eucharist and their tableau would be complete. Steve’s breathing slowed, and his awareness rose. He’d been convinced his bedroom was a gas chamber. He was an idiot. _(Damn it.)_

“You’re not Catholic,” Steve struggled to say, searching for something appropriate. Bucky had said he knew the prayer. He’d said that he’d prayed for Steve in the past when Steve was too weak to do so on his own. He’d said all that, but it hadn’t meant anything until this moment. He hadn’t realized just how much Bucky knew the words, he hadn’t realized just how much Bucky knew the prayers meant to him. The signs had all been there...why hadn’t he been paying attention?

“I spent enough time in Church with you to be an honorary member,” Bucky replied, shaking his head. _(It didn't work like that.)_ “What happened?”

Steve didn’t know how to explain it. He didn’t know what to say. He kept silent, and Pippin bit at his fingers in protest.

* * *

Steve couldn’t sleep. He couldn’t sleep, and eating made him twitchy. He didn’t have the energy to glare at the food Bucky made (endless bowls of pasta), but he watched it grow cold in front of him, and he couldn’t bring himself to move.

“What did they do to you?” he asked Bucky. The sins he carried with him were long and numerous. He knew he had more to add to his list.

“What did they do to _you?”_ Bucky asked him in return.

“Nothing.”

“Nothing,” Bucky repeated. He poked at his food with his fork, then stood up and limped away. Steve didn’t stop him. He didn’t know what to do.

_(“The opposite of ‘love’ is not ‘hate.’” Father Ryan told him. “Hate requires emotion. It requires feeling, as does love. They’re similar in that way. The opposite of ‘love’ can’t be ‘hate’, but it can be ‘indifference’. If you don’t feel anything at all, then there’s nothing there to grow. There’s no spark to ignite. There’s no life to flourish. There’s only a well of emptiness. Be wary of indifference. Not of hate. Even Lucifer wasn’t indifferent to his fall.” Steve stared at his priest with wide eyes. He couldn’t imagine a world where he’d be indifferent.)_

Bucky had his first seizure after their homecoming while Steve was trying to go to sleep. He heard the muffled curse, slurring words, and then the thump as Bucky hit the floor. Steve opened his eyes slowly, and walked towards the sound of his friend. Nothing was nearby, he wasn’t going to hurt himself, and he was twitching feebly. It wasn’t too bad. Nothing too violent. Pippin was quacking unhappily at Bucky’s side, and Steve absently walked towards her and picked her up. She struggled her little duck feet, trying to be put down. Her head bobbed unhappily, but he held her secure until Bucky finally stopped twitching.

Then he put Pippin by Bucky’s side and retrieved a blanket from the couch. He wrapped Bucky up into it, and settled down, waiting for his friend to come home to him. It took nearly an hour before Bucky rolled onto his side and curled under the blanket.

“I did it while I was there.” Steve made a noncommittal sound at Bucky’s quiet words. “They didn’t put me on ice.” He didn’t know what he was supposed to say to that. _(Good? They’ve proven that they are, actually, one one-billionth of a percent better than Hydra? Just give them time?)_

“What’d they do?”

“Thought it was cyanide at first, guess I was frothin’ or somethin’.” Or they were expecting something that would further their cause in the Bucky-is-Evil campaign. Steve closed his eyes. Pippin waddled next to him and sat down. Silly duck. “Tried to get my mouth open. Couldn’t do it. Think after that they put anticonvulsants in my food. There was white powder. I saw the flakes.”

“Did it help?”

“Yeah. Didn’t have another one. Sam said I should go to a doctor. Before.”

“You want to go to the doctor?”

“Don’t like shaking. They stopped it.”

“You want to go to the doctor?” Steve repeated. Bucky shrugged one shoulder.

“I _want_ to stop shaking.” Bucky rolled over. Dark circles wrapped around his eyes, standing out against too prominent cheek bones and pale skin. He didn't look good bald. His dark hair was starting to return, but it was only stubs. It was an eerie sight. He hated it, hated what happened to him in their home. 

Home. Steve felt sick at the thought of what had transpired here. SHIELD had come, invaded their lives, and damn near destroyed everything. Bucky’s ingrained paranoia towards Hydra was so much easier to understand now. Steve wanted to leave and not come back, to go where no one could follow.

“What’d they do to you?” Bucky asked him softly.

“Nothing, Buck. They left me alone. I stopped eating. They made me eat-”

“How’d they get the tube in you? They’d have to have lowered the boundary. You’d have gotten out. I know you.”  He did. He did know Steve. He knew him, and SHIELD had been ready to take that away again. They’d been ready to burn Steve from Bucky’s mind, just like Hydra, and apparently it would have made Bucky a ‘better man’ in the process.

There was no better man than Bucky Barnes. He was cracked and splintered, but he was still the best man that Steve had ever met. It took nearly twenty years to break him. Steve could feel the effects after only a few months. It wasn’t the same. He had no right to be upset about what had happened. Bucky had been through worse.

“Steve. What’d they do?”

“What’d they do to you?” Steve replied. They were in a loop. Neither would go anywhere without the other. Neither would advance without the other. Bucky’s lips pressed tight, and he made the first step.

“I thought they were Hydra,” Bucky said. Steve knew that. He had figured that out early on. “They didn’t do anything to me, Steve. I did everything they asked. I stayed in the cell. I didn’t fight them when they wanted me in chains. They asked me questions, and I answered them. I ate the food they gave me, I did what I was told. When they asked if I wanted to be a better man, I said yes. You found me. What did they do to you?”

“You’re talking better,” Steve noted absently

“All they wanted me to do was talk.” Bucky shivered, and Steve wondered if he would start seizing again. He didn’t. “Hydra never interrogated me. They didn’t care what I knew. They wanted mission reports, and obedience. Nothing else mattered. These people...SHIELD....they wanted Hydra’s secrets, their information. They wanted me to talk.”

“I wanted you to talk.”

“I know.” Pippin waddled back and forth between them, quacking occasionally, then hopping expectantly like it would earn her some peas. Neither had any on hand. “I know you did.”

“You’re talking now.”

“If I don’t - I’ll lose you, won’t I?” Steve squeezed his eyes. He forced back one hitching breath.

“I’m fine. I’m fine. You-”

“If it happened to me.” Steve’s eyes opened. “If it happened to me, whatever they did to you...would you be angry?”

Steve had a vision, suddenly, of Bucky standing next to Dernier in that ‘Disinfectant Room'. He looked like he did now, bald and too thin. His clothes were white washed and sagged off his frame. He stood next to Dernier like a shadow, or a ghost from the past. They were pressed against each other, shoulder to shoulder, looking at the filthy wall. He could see them standing there, and then the Zyklon-B pellets began to fall from the shower heads. He could see them coughing, gasping for air and going to the door, only to find it shut. They’d hit it, screaming and crying out, but the pellets kept coming. They clawed at it, leaving marks on the door. Their voices became stretched thin, and their protests weakened. The pellets kept coming. And when they finally fell to the ground, dead, the door opened and Coulson was standing there. _(“I understand that you’re upset…”)_

“Yes,” Steve seethed, fists tightening at his sides.

“Then tell me what they did.”

“They didn’t know.” That, Steve was certain of. Coulson and his team wouldn’t have known that he’d react the way he did. Gassing him into unconscious was the pragmatic answer to the problem. They couldn’t drop the barrier without a fight, and they needed to sedate him in order to keep him alive. They couldn’t possibly have known that he was going to remember one horrible day in Poland, and somehow relate it back to that experience. They couldn’t possibly have put it together.   
  


“Know what?”

“The gas.”

“What gas?” Steve could feel it in his throat. He rubbed it. He felt sweat pooling at his collar, and dripping down his head.

“They had to fill the room with gas to knock me out. But I was hungry, and cold, and somewhere in my head I remembered - I remembered-in Poland. Do you remember that? That camp-that camp we-we-”

“Son of a bitch.” Bucky moved forwards. His knees were between Steve’s spread legs, and his hands cupped Steve’s wet cheeks. Steve watched as Bucky’s eyes scanned over him, looking for any sign of physical damage that long since would have healed by now. “That’s not what happened.”

“I know.”

“They wouldn’t have done that. They need you. You’re too important. They wouldn’t have done that.”

“I know. Christ, I know. I know, but-it was-and I couldn’t get it out of my head. I can’t stop thinking about it. I couldn’t get out. I couldn’t- did you see what happened after the war?” Steve was shaking. He was shaking so hard that Bucky’s palms felt rigid against his cheeks. “Did you see what the aftermath was?” His friend didn’t reply. “Eleven million people died in those camps. Eleven _million_. And-and one million just in that one alone. Eighty-five million people died in the war as a whole. We were fighting Hydra, we were focused on Hydra. But the days that we fought the real war- those blur together sometimes, and I just. What have we done to fix it?” Bucky pulled him forward.

Steve’s head hit his chest, and Bucky’s arms wrapped around his body, and he shook as he tried to block out the memory of that room. He clung to Bucky’s body, and prayed he’d never have to let go. “Everyone we know is dead. They’re all dead, and the war ended, and I don’t think we won. I don’t think we _won_. It’s all wrong, Buck. _Everything’s all wrong_.”

“I know,” Bucky murmured. “I know.”

“It’s only been ten years. How can it only have been ten years?” Bucky didn’t have an answer.

Steve didn’t expect him to. It didn’t make much sense.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

They slept together on the floor. Bucky pulled the blanket over them, Pippin settled in on the couch, and they slept side by side. Bucky’s cold nose pressed against Steve’s neck, and he could feel his friend’s heartbeat against his spine.  They slept in turns, one awake and one asleep, throughout the night. Steve stared into the house, one arm clinging to Bucky's as it wrapped around him, and waited for the monsters to appear. He knew Bucky did the same when he had to take watch.

Watch. This was their home, and they had to take watch. _(Pathetic.)_

Tony visited them in the morning. He stopped by, bearing apologies and papers promising Bucky’s freedom. He didn’t look surprised that they weren’t doing well. “I know you had Sam,” he hedged carefully. “But maybe there’s someone else you can talk to?”

“So they can be kidnapped, tortured, and interrogated for being a terrorist?” Steve asked, not bothering to dignify that with a response.

Tony grimaced. “You may have a point.” He sighed and shook his head. “What are you planning on doing now?”

There was a house full of art supplies, and Steve couldn’t bring himself to think about using any of them. He wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do in life, but he knew it wasn’t art. He’d tried twice, and each time his dream had fallen away.

_(“What makes you happy?”_

__

_“I don’t know.”)_

Tony looked between them for a while, uncomfortable and clearly not certain how to proceed. He waited for a long while, but neither Bucky nor Steve had an answer for him. They didn’t know what the future would bring. They didn’t know what their life was meant to be like. All the plans that they’d made in the past had fallen to dust.

“We’re here if you need us,” Tony offered, and Steve nodded.

“Thank you,” he told him. If nothing else, he’d worked to help keep Bucky out of prison. Steve would appreciate that until the day he died.

Tony nodded and then awkwardly shook Steve’s hand. He gave a wave across the room to Bucky, then departed without another word. He hesitated before flying off in his Ironman suit, just long enough to look back and frown towards their house. He wasn’t happy, but Steve doubted anyone he knew _was_ at the moment.

Steve returned towards his bedroom and tried to work out exactly what their next move was. He didn’t have a plan. He really didn’t. Bucky followed him, quietly limping. He had started to regain some of the weight he’d lost, and he’d begun strength training in an effort to keep his arm from tearing his body in half. Steve had watched as muscle started to form along Bucky’s back and chest. It’d take him months to return to a fully functioning body weight, but Bucky was trying at the very least.

Steve caught sight of his own reflection in the mirror above his dresser. He’d stopped shaving, stopped cutting his hair. It was a small victory. SHIELD had kept him they way they wanted him, a doll frozen in time trapped in a box, meant to be looked at and not touched. He just wanted to be himself, whoever that was. Lately, he didn’t know.

“I want to go after them,” Bucky murmured softly. Steve met his eyes in the mirror, watching Bucky’s reflection as it moved into place behind his shoulder.

“Tony?” Steve asked.

“No. SHIELD...Hydra.” Steve stared at Bucky, eyes wide and heart pounding in his ears.

“You don’t want to fight.” Bucky had said as much. He was tired of fighting, tired of violence, tired of killing indiscriminately. Why would he want to change that now?

“I don’t want to kill anyone. I don’t like bullies.” They were words from a different life, words that didn’t belong to Bucky, but had always defined who they were. Steve had said those words to a man who had promised to give him a chance. Only a chance. Steve had said those words when he’d been weak and desperate, certain that even if he had that chance - he’d likely not be much more than cannon fodder. That had been fine, because at least it was better than staying in Brooklyn and knowing the world was moving on without him.

_(“Right, ‘cause you’ve got nothing to prove.”)_

Why was he saying this now? Why now? After all this time had passed. Why now? “You don’t want to fight. You said you were tired of fighting.” Steve pressed hand to his head and squeezed his fingers at his temples. His head ached.

“I _am_ tired of fighting,” Bucky replied. “I’m _very_ tired of fighting. But you were right. The war never ended. Not really. As long as they’re still out there, the war hasn’t ended. You deserve the war to be over.”

Steve felt as though the rusty and cobwebbed gears that moved his body were finally starting to turn. He could feel them grinding together, shaking dust and debris off as they twisted and rotated in his chest. He could feel emotions, so long kept behind a wall of apathy, finally starting to push through.

“You deserve to live in a world where you can heal in peace...and I do too.” Bucky seemed to add the last part on as an afterthought, something he knew Steve would appreciate but didn’t quite believe on his own. He’d get there, perhaps. Perhaps even in the near future. But he wasn’t there yet.

Apathy warred with emotions within him, and Steve turned to look at his friend fully. Bucky was standing there, shoulders back, head up. _(“Sergeant Barnes reporting for duty, Sir!”)_

“I...I hate them for what they’ve done, what they’ll continue to do. I hate them for it.”

Steve felt his muscles tighten. (God, what did they actually do? What were they planning on doing? What was the end game with all of this? SHIELD? Hydra? They were never going to stop. Bucky always said someone was going to come for them. He was right. They’d come again. If not Coulson, than someone else. They’ll never be safe. They’ll never be able to stop. Not until it was done.) Bucky was angry. He was upset. He was lashing out. Steve didn’t blame him. He’d never blame him for that.

“What do you say?” Bucky asked quietly. “You ready to follow the Winter Soldier into the jaws of death?”  

He already knew the answer. They both did. It had been circling around them since the that day three years ago. There was a part of Steve that wanted to live in a home, raise a family, and paint sunsets in the park. There was a part of Steve that wanted to marry Peggy Carter and live a happy life once the war was over.

That part had died. If not in the snow, then in a cell in a SHIELD base while he was mistaking a sedative for Zyklon B.

Ironically, Coulson had been right. Steve was always going to be Captain America. He couldn’t separate himself from that title, nor that persona, anymore than Bucky could fully slip out of the life of the Winter Soldier. They were tied together, melded as one, and there was no separation. Captain America just wasn’t who Coulson thought he was.

He wasn’t the one to fight for the government because it was in charge. He was a good man, fighting for good people, no matter the cost. Steve Rogers was Captain America, and Captain America was Steve Rogers. He had the guts to reach into the filth and make something good out of it. He had the guts to _not_ become dirty on the way.

_(“Doesn't matter what the press says. Doesn't matter what the politicians or the mobs say. Doesn't matter if the whole country decides that something wrong is something right. This nation was founded on one principle above all else: the requirement that we stand up for what we believe, no matter the odds or the consequences. When the mob and the press and the whole world tell you to move, your job is to plant yourself like a tree beside the river of truth, and tell the whole world — "No, you move.”)_

Erskine had given him the serum because he was a good man. Good men didn’t let organizations like SHIELD and Hydra exist. Good men found the strength to get up, to never stay down, and to keep on moving forwards.

_(“You start running and they’ll never let you stop.”)_

Steve thought about it. He thought about finding Bucky on another table, surrounded by operating equipment. He thought about the isolation, the fear, the paranoia. He thought about the fury he’d felt when Bucky had asked him to imagine Bucky in that cell - choking on gas. Anger mounted, becoming more and more prominent with each passing second.

“I want them gone,” he said firmly. As soon as the words left his mouth, he knew them to be true. He wanted them gone. He wanted them eradicated from the face of the earth. He wanted them to be dealt with swiftly and efficiently. He wanted them to know what it was like to lose faith in the system that they supported. 

Bucky nodded. “Then it’s settled.”

 

"And Bucky?" Steve asked, watching as his friend tilted his head to listen. "It's not the Winter Soldier. That kid from Brooklyn who always knew which fight was the right fight to be in, who always knew when to get involved...I'm following him." 

 

And Bucky Barnes, who had kept the bullies from coming after him, who had joined every fight Steve had started and always made sure he was safe, who had rescued cats and dogs in the allies, and had never once abandoned those in need, smiled at him. 

_(“You think we’ll make it out of here in one piece?” Bucky asked. The winter chill was swirling around them. His fingers were busy adjusting his rifle on his shoulder, and Steve shrugged as he slumped to a seat at Bucky’s side._

__

_“We’ll figure it out. One way or another.”_

__

_“You know, war might never be over.”_

__

_“It’ll end. Someday, it’ll end. Maybe there’ll be another war after it, but this one will end.”_

__

_“You gonna fight the next one?”_

__

_“Don’t know. Maybe? Depends what it is, I suppose.”_

__

_“I’m tired of fighting.”_

__

_“Yeah, me too.”_

__

_“You? You’ve picked a fight with everyone you ever met since the day you were born!”_

__

_“Still. Someday it might be nice to win.”_

__

_“Well, stop setting your sights so high. Whatcha fightin’ for now?”_

__

_“To stop Hydra.”_

__

_“Well, I suppose we gotta end the war then, huh?”_

__

_“Yep.”_

__

_“Well, let’s go stop Hydra.”_

__

_“Together, Bucky?”_

__

_“Together, Steve.”)_

Steve felt something settle in his chest. Anxiety and depression still clung to his senses like parasites that would never let go, but his apathy had cleared. Anger pounded through him, and like a phoenix, he’d been reborn. He knew his direction, and he knew their first order of business.

They’d figure it out. They’d figure it out, and they’d move forwards. No more hiding. No more pretending. This was who they were, and that was it. This was the life they led. Take them as they were: jagged pieces and broken edges.

Steve moved towards his closet and he pulled open the door. His shield was right where he’d left it. Coulson hadn't taken it when he'd captured them. Tony and the Avengers hadn’t touched it while they’d investigated the house. He’d have to train again, his body had grown weak over the past few years. He wasn’t nearly prepared enough to go into battle. But he could do it. He knew he could. He reached for his shield and met Bucky’s eyes.

  
They had made a deal seventy five years ago, and it still held true until today. Time to stop standing still. They had a war to end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone for their support. I'm so happy you all enjoyed this, and I hope that you continue to enjoy the other works that I put out. Before you all ask - yes I do have plans for continuing this series. I have started working on several installments that will be collected in a fic titled: "A Better Way". 
> 
> This fic will take place directly after this one, and will show Steve and Bucky interacting with the people around them and influencing them into change. I will take prompts for that story, and so if you would like to see a specific character (no on within SHIELD at this time as they are locked into the story already), then please feel free to let me know. 
> 
> I take prompts in general too, and am always happy to answer any questions you may have. Feel free to send me a message on my tumblr account, and if you ever want to chat - my doors are open. 
> 
> Thank you again for all of your support, and I look forward to continuing to be a part of this fandom!
> 
> And of course, Happy Steve Rogers Day!
> 
> http://www.falcon-fox-and-coyote.tumblr.com


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